


Dearly Departed Dexter

by fullundisclosure



Category: Dexter (TV)
Genre: Rewrite, Series Finale, new ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-27 03:23:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5031868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fullundisclosure/pseuds/fullundisclosure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a story I wrote about 4 and 1/2 years ago, between seasons 5 and 6 of "Dexter." It's basically a final 'season' of the series, including a 'finale' in the final chapter. I posted it elsewhere back when I wrote it, but I feel like more people could use an ending like this. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bella Notte

Moon. Glorious moon. It calls to me, and I feel my Dark Passenger rise up like a cobra, ready to strike. The moon puts a voodoo spell on me, and transfixes the monster inside me to the point where I am entirely helpless. I sit, watching my old friend the moon. But alas, tonight is not the night. Well, it is not my usual night with my lunar companion. Tonight’s the night where the moon is merely a young boy in a costume, smiling on a stage in front of his dearly devoted daddy, while the deficiently demonic parents seem to be unwaveringly bound to their cameras. They remain transfixed on their children, intent on demonstrating their complete love and appreciation for their kids. Dexter devoid of emotion still feels something that could only be described as a distant cousin of utter humanness while watching young Cody in his escapades. Tonight, I ready myself to reunite with my other, more innocent moon friend.  
  
“Good job, Cody!” I say, while patting the boy on the back. Astor isn’t quite as enthusiastic as I, considering that she called the overall play “lame” numerous times, but she still smiles and reaffirms my compliments to her brother. The kids, as usual, ask about little Harrison, who is thankfully in the hands of Sonya. Right, I still have to get back home. Ok, pizza and ice cream with the kids, and then I hit the road.  
  
Now that Astor and Cody are back with their grandparents, after a summer of withholding my homicidal behavior, I still haven’t had the chance to reunite with my passenger – thanks to a persistent, puppy-dog eyed Cody’s play. This, I’m sure, is just one in a long line of events that will force me to keep my shadowy friend at bay. At least it’s only a couple of times a year.

* * *

  
Home sweet home.  
  
“Thanks Sonya – sorry I was late, there was some traffic for a while there.” “That’s okay, Dexter. Harrison was very talkative today – he’s even learned some new words,” Sonya informs me enthusiastically, but I’m a little worried after the “Die, die” incident.  
  
“Oh…” I say awkwardly, “Come on Harrison,” says Sonya, “Say what you told me earlier.” After a pause that seemed much longer than it actually was, I hear a high-pitched, sweetly spoken word: “blood.” Ah, just great. “That’s interesting…why did he say ‘blood’?” “He didn’t say ‘blood,’ Dexter, he said ‘love.’ Maybe you’re still tired from the drive home.” “Must be.” I hear Harrison say what sounds more like ‘love’ before Sonya leaves; I guess I could use some shut-eye.  
  
Unfortunately, ‘no rest for the wicked’ happens to be a cliché I’m particularly susceptible to…I seem to have missed a phone call from devoted Detective Deb. “Hey, Dex. I guess you’re still with Cody…just, call me back tomorrow. I need you’re super-bad-guy detecting skills ASAP.” Why can’t my fellow homicidal maniacs kill during the workweek? Ugh.

* * *

  
My sister hasn’t been investigating me too much lately; she’s too busy with work…and Quinn. I may not be a fan of his, but hey, I’ll take anything right now to avoid anyone uncovering the monster behind my mask. [Dials Deb’s number from home phone.] “Hey Deb,” but before I can finish, my darling sister says, “What took you so long, Dex?” “Uh…I needed breakfast, and then I –” “Whatever, Dex. See, I’m working this case – and I have a hunch but I need to get your opinion.”  
Ah, my sister knows me too well – well, sort of, “Sure Deb, is this the bar bludgeoning case by any chance?” “Yeah, but we’ve got shit. I just kind of have a feeling that it’s that Adams guy, what do you think?” “I’m not sure he’s your guy sis…” because he’s mine.  
  
“Fuck, you sure Dex? Cause he just kind of seemed off, you know?” Poor Deb, I could just put her out of her misery like I might have a few years ago, but I really, really need to kill this guy; “Deb, I’m sure.”  


* * *

  
Mitch Adams: three bar altercations in the last four years; fight provoker extraordinaire. Usually he gets away with his crimes because he claims self-defense, keeps his fights outside and away from witnesses, and has the money for a good lawyer. I’ve wanted this guy on my table for a while now, but needed to be dutiful dad Dexter over the summer. My Dark Passenger almost can’t wait, but tonight still isn’t the night.  


* * *

  
“Dexter – over here!”  
  
Tonight is the night where I have an awkward dinner with Quinn. For some reason, he wants to get to know me better. I better go and join him, he seemed anxious on the phone.

  
“Hi,” I say in my most appropriately enthusiastic voice, “So what is it you wanted to talk to me about?” “Well…” Quinn says, avoiding looking at me. Uh-oh. “You know how I feel about your sister, Dex. I just thought that maybe I should talk to you before I do anything too fast.” Wait for it Dexter…

“I want to spend the rest of my life with Deb, Dexter.” Oh boy. Don’t kill Deb’s boyfriend, don’t kill Deb’s boyfriend…

“I, uh, isn’t it a little soon, Quinn?” He looks somewhat defeatedly at me, which unfortunately (for him) doesn’t really affect me.

“It’s just that, I really love her and care for her, Dexter–” “I get it, I get it. I just don’t want you to-” “Hurt her? Wouldn’t dream of it, Dexter.”

Considering Deb’s dating history and Quinn’s former Doakes-iness towards me, I don’t think this is going to end well. On top of that, I’ve never really liked the guy. But, what makes Deb happy should probably be more important than what makes her heartless brother’s life less confusing, right?

“If you really want to, then you should ask her. It’s just really bad timing right now, Quinn, what with all the cases you two are working on. Just, wait a little while.”

“Thanks, Dexter,” [Waitress passes.] “Just bring one bill when we’re done, I’m paying.” I wish he wouldn’t be so nice to me, the winking and smiling are kind of creepy too. I suppose that’s better than his outright suspicion of my homicidal tendancies.

* * *

Tonight is finally the night.

I stopped by a hardware store and picked up my usual plastic wrap, duct tape, kill tools, and of course, life vests. Harrison is happily in the arms of Sonya, reciting his favorite words for her while I visit Mitch Adams’ favorite bar. There’s the moon again, my Dark Passenger’s call to action; and this time, it’s for real. It’s just a matter of waiting before I can…

[Phone rings.] Fuck, this isn’t helping the whole incognito thing. It’s dispatch. “Hello, this is Dexter Morgan,” I answer. A crime scene, oh joy. Better yet, it’s at Mitch’s bar, which is only five minutes away now. I better drive around the block a few times before arriving. The kill clothes should probably go too.

* * *

 

“Deb! What’s going on?” I say upon arrival at the scene, “That Mitch guy I was talking about was bludgeoned, Dex. I’ll let Masuka fill you in on some of the other twisted shit he found.” Huh, tonight really isn’t the night now…or ever in Mitch’s case.

It’s kind of odd that a bludgeoner like Mitch was bludgeoned outside of his favorite bar, where he usually creates the crime scenes. It’s strangely poetic, but it doesn’t make sense. Maybe it was just a bar fight in an alleyway, and maybe Mitch did a little too good of a job provoking his victim.

“Vince, what have we got so far?” “A bludgeoning, duh…” “Yeah, but is there anything out of the ordinary? Any witnesses?” I just need to know how this happened; who spoiled my fun? “You’re the blood guy, Dexter. Why don’t you go see for yourself? Hehehehe…” What? Now I’m really curious. Damn you, Masuka.

Then I see it. Adjacent to the body there appears to be blood on the wall, but not in a pattern that’s related to a bludgeoning. “More lights, anyone?” Someone hands me a large flashlight. “Oh, wow…that’s strange…” There’s an infinity symbol painted on the wall in blood. “I’ll test this back at the lab,” luckily, Masuka lent me some basic supplies because I only had my kill kit, not my blood kit.

* * *

“Morning Dexter! No doughnuts?” Masuka seems cheery today. “No, I was busy. With Harrison,” not as if I was busy delving into Mitch Adam’s past, searching for answers, and lost track of time. “So, Vince, did you find anything in the DNA on the Mitch Adams case?” “No, not yet.” “Then, why are you so cheerful?” I’m not sure if I want to ask Masuka this, but maybe it’ll help hide my unfulfilled blood-thirst after last night’s fiasco. “I, uh, hehehe,” I’m already starting to regret asking him, “things are getting pretty awesome with my girlfriend. How did I get someone so hot?” “I dunno, Vince.” “Hey, you’re just jealous, Dexter.” “Must be.”

Ever since Masuka met his new girlfriend before Harrison’s birthday party, he’s been focused less on me. This could work to my advantage.

* * *

“Blood results, Dexter,” “Thanks, Vince.” I practically tear open the file. “The sample from the wall matches Mitch’s blood,” Vince just stares at me, “Fuck. Deb’s not gonna like this,” what are you talking about? I head off to find my sister before I can even process Masuka’s last sentence.

I tell her the results. “Fuck! That kind of goes against my theory…great,” “You had a theory?” I ask her, feeling as if I’ve been left out of some big secret. “Well, there were some cases where this one killer kept on leaving behind the exact infinity same symbol, only it was his own blood. Now, here’s where it gets tricky. We know that Mitch Adams wasn’t the killer partly because he was found dead and partly because his sample doesn’t match any of the other symbols. But, we still don’t know whose blood it is, it’s not in out database. And, now all of a sudden there’s Mitch’s blood on the wall beside his dead body. Do you know what the weirdest part is? The other killer, the one we haven’t found yet, was a vigilante; all of his victims have been seriously investigated by our department, but managed to escape. So what I wanna know is why there’s someone going around copying this vigilante’s M.O. down to the symbol, albeit with different blood, and even a victim who was a killer.”

“Shit, Deb. So this means that there’s some kind of copycat vigilante,” she nods her head, and I hasten towards my lab.

* * *

[Phone rings.] “Sergeant Batista…ok…got it…” [He puts the phone down.] “Listen up everyone, we’ve got a body in a night club, some place called ‘Fever.’ The manager found the body this morning…” I look around as Angel directs me to grab my blood kit. Deb’s face makes me rush more because of her sudden excitement. No one decides to fill me in at the moment.

* * *

It’s strange seeing a club with the lights fully on. Now I know why they’re usually dark: the graffiti, dirt, and less attractive nightclub goers are hidden by a veil of dimmed visual perception. Like my Passenger, they are better when hidden; Dexter works best devoid of directness.

“Tommy Gray, a.k.a. Priscilla Diamond, 35, stabbed to death in a small storage room. Drag Queen, and frequent visitor to this club,” I look at Deb after her statement, “And of course, there’s the infinity thing again,” I point out. “Yes, thanks for that Dexter,” she says semi-sarcastically.

“There’s too much glitter on this crime scene to see forensic evidence properly. But luckily, because I’m awesome, it’s no problem for me. Remember: LFI on the BHB…” “I know, Vince. I’ll just get to the blood work…”

Like usual, I take samples and pictures, and head back to my lab.

* * *

“Are you serious?” “Yeah, Deb I checked and the blood from the vic matches not only the infinity symbol at the club, but also all of the other ones from the previous crime scenes. So now you’ve found your guy.” Deb pauses a long time, I don’t blame her though because I’m still a bit confused myself.

“Wait, so then someone killed Tommy Grey, but used his M.O.?” “That seems to be the case, Deb. I’m not sure what else to –” “Hang on! Shit, there’s some kind of vigilante out there, who’s just killed another one…fuck, Dex, why the fuck would anyone do this? …And why was none the blood at the Mitch Adams crime scene Tommy Gray’s?”

Beats me.


	2. Nothing in the Dark

I’m hungry. Starving. No matter how many more of these pulled-pork sandwiches I eat, I still feel unsatisfied. What I need is to kill somebody. It’s been two weeks since I didn’t kill Mitch Adams and my Passenger is deeply deprived. What’s worse is that I don’t understand Mitch’s death yet. First of all, he was killed by someone who used a combination of Mitch’s and Tommy Gray’s M.O.s. Then, Tommy Gray is killed, but by whom? More so than this, it seems as though Tommy was a vigilante, and theoretically would have wanted to kill Mitch, but obviously didn’t. The very idea that someone killed Tommy Gray, a _vigilante_ , makes me wonder so many things…

Dexter is dumbfounded.

“Hey, Dex” says my sister, “Hi Deb.” It’s one o’clock. Deb has taken to carrying on Lundy’s routine lately. Well, whenever she actually has time for lunch, that is. She’s in denial, but the cream cheese and cucumber sandwiches blow her cover.

_[Deb’s cell phone rings, she answers.]_ “…Seriously? Fuck… Yeah, I’ll be there. Sure, I’ll let him know.” “Crime scene?” I ask. Her tired expression answers for me as she reluctantly puts her lunch away. “Bring your kit.”

* * *

Another day in Miami: another homicide. This one, at least, is not the work of the vigilante, a.k.a. Dexter’s bad-guy-hogging nemesis, whom Deb still hasn’t brought to the attention of Laguerta, or even Batista.

_[Masuka enters, humming and singing happily.]_ “Masuka?” Deb inquires, “… _baby, baby, baby, ooh! I’m like, baby…”_ “Masuka!!” My sister tries for Vince’s attention but he seems, uh, occupied. “Masuka, seriously! Shit, you’re distracted today,” “Sorry, what?” Masuka replies, “We’re at a crime scene, so maybe do your job so I can write up my report,” “Oh, ok Deb. Right on it.” Deb seems about as pre-occupied with Tommy and Mitch’s deaths as I am, but not quite in the same way. Deb turns to me, “Ugh, I really want to get this over with, Dex.” Me too.

* * *

Maybe Dexter can go undetected for today. Then, maybe I can do a little research about Mitch, or Tommy. Yes, that sounds like a good idea. But what do I tell–“Dexter!” Ok, maybe I won’t.

“Seriously, bro. You’re about as much help as Masuka right now. So get the fuck back to reality for a moment.” _[Her phone rings.]_ “God damn it. Can’t it wait?” she closes her phone, “I gotta go. Apparently Laguerta heard about my vigilante theory. Great. I’ll take the cliff notes on this crime scene for now.”

“This woman was strangled, as you can see by the bruising and contusions on her neck,” Masuka finally answers. Deb looks at me inquisitively, so I answer her plea, “Yeah, and over there, the killer seems to have scraped himself on the bed frame pretty badly, so I’ll test the blood against the database and we should have your–” “ _love, your love, your love, is my drug! Your love, your love_ –” “MASUKA!” “Oh, sorry Deb.”

So now I suppose I have to race against my own sister, once again, to kill this guy before she catches him. And I really, _really_ need to kill him. But how do I kill him when I don’t know who I’m looking for? Hmm, more research, yet ag–“We really don’t need you starting a fucking musical too, Dex.” Ok then.

Deb rolls her eyes at Masuka’s musical escapades and leaves the room. At least _I_ seem to be the least of her worries right now.

* * *

 

“Lieutenant, I just wanted to build a stronger case before I came to you,” _Deb tells Laguerta._ “Debra, it’s okay. I know this goes against protocol not to come to me first, but your instincts are usually pretty good. Just next time, talk about it more quietly, or talk to me first.” _Deb looks relieved._

“Now, explain your theory to me in detail. Please, Debra,” “Sure, Lieutenant.”

* * *

 

_Dexter enters his lab and sets his briefcase down on the floor with a sigh, relieved by finally having some time alone to dig up some information that might lead him to the vigilante, but his sigh is also out of his frustration for having his kill taken away. He sits down, and opens his laptop to find some information before Deb finishes dealing with Laguerta._

Ok, Mitch Adams, tell me who killed you. At least tell me _why_. Let’s see if I can find out anything about your previous kills, maybe your victims can tell me. _[After searching through the database for old case files, he stumbles across one of Mitch’s three known victims.]_

Lola Diaz. That name seems vaguely familiar. Ah, here we go: she had a case go through here about three years ago where she was accused of killing her brother, but the case was dropped about three weeks later when she was found dead outside a bar; her mother was too traumatized to let the case continue.

I need to know more about Lola.

* * *

 

“Leaving already?” Masuka asks me. I’m surprised he even noticed. “Yeah, I’ve got to take Harrison to preschool because Sonya has a commitment that she can’t get out of.” “Ok, Dexter-ous. Hehehe.”

* * *

 

So this is Mrs. Diaz’s house: run-down, over-grown. _[Peaks into window.]_ Good, she’s sleeping.

I don’t know if I’ll find anything here, especially three years after Lola lived here. But considering the condition of this place, and the enormous pile of trash yet to be taken to the curb, I might just find some clue as to what happened with Lola and Mitch. I don’t even think Mrs. Diaz will be able to see me behind some of the junk she keeps here.

All I need is some evidence.

_Dexter finds the back door of the house and, leather-gloved, picks the lock. Once inside the house, he quickly notices Lola’s former room._

And we have a winner (I hope): Lola’s computer. I suppose Mrs. Diaz just didn’t bother to get rid of it–it’s still mostly functional of course, but she wouldn’t be able to sell it with all the graffiti, and the layer of sticky dust that she’d have to clean off of it beforehand.

_Dexter pulls his hand back from the computer in disgust, grabs a tissue, and tries to clean the keyboard, to no avail._

Fuck it.

_He switches his leather gloves for his rubber gloves, and delves into Lola’s computer._

* * *

Nothing. Shit, someone deleted her emails, and the only files left on here are videos and music that Lola downloaded illegally. I really doubt that her love of basically every top 40 hit from 2006-2008 will lead to her brother’s murder.

Wait a second. _[He looks at her calendar.]_ Why is it on May? Lola was killed in April _[He flips through the calendar.]_ Every month, except for May, is completely untouched. Spotless. But May has demonic drawings all over it, with the phrase, ‘Die, Bitch. Die’ scribbled all over. One day in particular is so covered in this writing that it looks like some black void.

Mother’s Day.

* * *

 

“Deb, you wanna head home soon?” _Quinn asks Deb,_ “Sure,” _she says,_ “but can we stop by my brother’s place first? He left the station before I had the chance to ask him something. He should be home with Harrison right now.”

* * *

 

“I’ll be back in a minute. Love you!”

_Deb leaves Quinn momentarily and goes up the stairs to Dexter’s apartment. She knocks on the door and Sonya, to her surprise, answers._

“Hi Debra, what a surprise,” “You could say that again, Sonya.” _The two look at each other confusedly._ “Are you here to see Harrison, or did Dexter send you to pick him up for some reason?” “No, I um…never mind, I thought he said he was going home. My bad.”

_Deb leaves Dexter’s apartment._

Fuck, Dex. Why did you lie?

* * *

 

Why did you kill her, Mitch?

“Dexter, maybe your sister was missing something,” Harry says, “Wait, what do you mean?” I am genuinely dumbfounded.

“I mean that maybe Tommy Gray wasn’t the only vigilante. Mitch Adams killed Lola Diaz not long before Mother’s Day,” And maybe he was protecting Mrs. Diaz, “Shit.” “I know, Dexter,” He tells me, “Be careful, son.”

Yeah, I _really_ need to worry about _more_ right now. First, I need to get home.

* * *

“What’s wrong, Deb?” _Quinn scoots closer to Deb on the couch, sensing that she’s upset._ “It’s nothing, Joey, I–” _She can’t speak. She feels as though she is about to cry, so she tries to avoid saying anything else._ “Aw, Deb,” _Quinn puts his arm around her in an act of comfort,_ “Please, tell me what’s wrong. You didn’t talk the whole way home.”

_Deb takes a few deep breaths and begins to calmly speak,_ “Dexter wasn’t at his apartment.”

_Quinn is at odds with what he should do. This doesn’t seem like a big deal, but obviously Deb’s worried. And, sure, he’s been suspicious of Dexter in the past, and he knows that the guy is never totally honest, but is Deb over-reacting?_

“Sonya didn’t seem to think that Dexter was coming home any time soon. She seemed confused and surprised that I was there, almost as much as I was confused about why Dexter wasn’t.” _She looks hurt, possibly even betrayed, so Quinn continues to try to comfort her,_ “I’m sure it isn’t as bad as it seems. Look,” _he takes her hands,_ “I’ll talk to him tomorrow if you want. I’ll find out if everything’s okay. You never know, maybe he was just stuck in traffic or something?”

_Deb nods her head, and gives Quinn a faint smile. He kisses her on the forehead and she seems much more relaxed._

“Fuck, I’m hungry. Let’s go get some food.” Same old Deb.

* * *

 

“Thanks for watching Harrison, Sonya.” “No problem, Dexter. He’s a joy to take care of.”

_Sonya does not mention the incident with Deb. At the moment, it seems relatively unimportant to her._

* * *

I _need_ to know more about Mitch Adams’ victims. Could he have really been a vigilante? Then I suppose it’s possible that he wasn’t such a terrible monster compared to his victims, and maybe his Dark Passenger danced rather than clumsily bashed its way through the dark.

_[Someone knocks on the door.]_ That’s weird; it’s almost eleven o’clock. It’s getting awfully late for visitors.

“Quinn,” I say, a little too surprised. “Dexter, hi. Deb doesn’t know that I came here, so I’d appreciate it if you kept this between us,” “Ok.” What the–

“Deb was worried earlier. I mean,” Huh? “…She seems to think that you’ve been lying to her. And that got me thinking about a lot of stuff…” Oh, this is _exactly_ what I need. Ugh, “Dex, I don’t want to start more conflict between us.”

He keeps on looking down, avoiding making eye contact with me. Now, he seems more confident, though, “Quinn, I don’t want to either. Especially with you and Deb…” “Dexter, I know that you saved me with the blood work at Liddy’s crime scene, and for that, I still owe you a lot. So that’s why I’m not going to tell any of this to Deb.”

I don’t know what to say to him, so I just mutter something along the lines of ‘Thanks, Quinn. I appreciate it. But what are you talking about?’ All he does is look more intensely at me, as if he is trying to figure out what to say, or maybe _how_ to say it.

“You killed Liddy.”


	3. Mr. Morgan's Profession

I knew that I still had some unresolved problems to deal with, especially when it came to Quinn. I just hoped that maybe the loose ends I had neatly tied up (with duct tape and plastic wrap of course) were enough to divert attention away from myself. The compassionate Deb, who I believe is still unaware of my Dark Passenger, saved Lumen and me from being arrested. More so than this, she saved herself from knowing the full extent of my awful truth. I even managed to evade Quinn after his persistent attempt at exercising my demons. But as he is confronting me right now, I am forced to either bring my darkness into the light–which will eventually help him unravel my past, or, I could just avoid the man who not only is a detective in my department, but also could potentially marry my sister. And if there is any humanity or chance of it left in me right now, Deb is my only possible salvation from my deeply demented monster.

As I am trying to even phrase my response to Quinn, he speaks: “Dexter,” and I wake from my reverie. “But, how?” I ask, even though I know some of the answer.

“Because,” he replies, “Liddy told me about some big bust he wanted me to make. So, I drove to where his van was, but I didn’t see him or hear from him.” He pauses momentarily to re-steady his stance before he finishes his confession, “The bust was about you, Dexter. And I guess when I saw Liddy’s _dead_ body in his van, in the same spot where I went to meet him, I realized that you must have killed him.”

“But Quinn,” I’m surprised that I even got these words out, yet I continue, “how did you–” but he cuts me off, trying to get this burden off his chest, “Because he had surveillance tapes of your apartment, and those were gone by the time we got to the crime scene. It only makes sense that the person who killed him was the person on those tapes. Even Batista, and _Deb_ thought the same thing.”

There’s no way to evade this any longer, “You’re right Quinn, I killed Stan Liddy.” His expression does not change. Finally, he nods and takes a deep breath.

“I gotta go,” he says, as he goes out into the suddenly pouring Miami night.

________________________________________

“ _Oh, you make me wanna listen to music again…_ ” Masuka happily sings to himself as I enter my office. I still need to find out more about Mitch Adams’ two other victims.

Ok, database give me _something_. _[Searches on his laptop for a few minutes.]_ Here we go: Bob Wilde and Jacques Perrier. Hmmm, that’s odd: there’s not very much information on here about them. Looks like I need to head to the file room.

________________________________________

“You’re up early.” “Ha, you’re just up late. Want some coffee?” _Deb asks Quinn._ “Fuck yeah, I’m tired.”

 _She looks at him inquisitively before speaking,_ “You got home really late last night–what was it exactly that you had to pick up all of a sudden?” “I forgot my notes at work after I finished interviewing some of Tommy Gray’s friends. They had no idea that the guy was a killer. All they said that he was ‘motivated by the Universe’ for everything he did…or some shit like that.”

“How come you realized that so late? You could’ve picked up your notes tomorrow.” _She inquires while passing him a cup of coffee_ , “I know, but Deb I guess I’ve just had a lot on my mind lately. I’ve been forgetting things. And besides, I really, _really_ want to get this case solved–for both our sakes.”

_Deb seems to take this as a suitable answer for the moment, especially considering how busy and tired the two of them are. It doesn’t hurt that he’s trying his hardest to give her puppy-dog eyes while emphasizing that he cares about her._

“Fuck, why do you have to do this to me?” _She says, laughing._

________________________________________

It seems like Deb’s friend Francis isn’t here yet; thank you Miami rush hour. I have to find these files pretty fast because I have a new victim in mind. Whoever killed Mitch Adams needs to back off or Dexter is due to destruct.

________________________________________

My findings are odd. But, good odd (I suppose).

Bob Wilde: he had severe rage issues that he had had counseling for, but quit going to his shrink. These rage issues would have made him a prime victim for Mitch Adams, seeing that he liked to provoke pseudo-bar-fights. Oh, and he abused alcohol, food, and his wife. Of course, the case was dropped after he was found dead.

Two down, one more to go. Jacques Perrier: he killed his girlfriend, Dominique Soustelle, in a fire. The case was dropped because Jacques and his girlfriend were illegal immigrants, and he turned up dead within only a few days.

Mitch Adams _must have_ been a vigilante. _[He hears a noise.]_ I should probably contemplate my next kill somewhere more private.

________________________________________

Tonight’s the night. My victim, Charles Pinkard, is an aristocrat and a businessman. He didn’t used to be so wealthy, but he married a wealthy woman, killed her, and is now married to a woman whose fortune he’s been eying for quite some time now. Greed isn’t his only vice: he’s a monster.

Tonight, my funny friend and me will give him a healthy dose of M99 after his late night gala. I already have the kill room in mind.

________________________________________

“Captain Matthews–please, sit,” _Laguerta says to the man_ , “Lieutenant, it’s come to my attention that Detective Morgan has been talking about some vigilante theory, is this true?” Damn, she should really learn to keep things quiet, “Yes, Captain. Let me explain–” _But he cuts her off_.

“Lieutenant, if what I’ve been hearing is true, the press is going to want in on it. So I suggest you fill me in so we can come up with a statement. We don’t want a killer on the loose.” “Sure, Captain.” _She reluctantly answers, preparing to tell Captain Matthews everything before he hears it elsewhere._ Fuck.

________________________________________

Considering that I have all my kill supplies from when I almost killed Mitch Adams, it shouldn’t take me too long to set things up tonight. I also found out that Mr. Pinkard keeps a rather large (ok, enormous) shed in his back yard. He rarely, but basically never, uses it and neither does his staff; it’s such a perfect kill room. So I guess tonight really is the–

“Dexter, you got a minute?” Ah, Quinn. But you know what? I’m at peace with my demonic Dark Passenger a little bit more right now, so I think I can deal with him. “Sure, Quinn. Is this about last night?” He nods and closes my door behind him. It suddenly feels really crowded in my office.

“There’s a lot of stuff that I know, Dex. I think it’s time that I come clean about it,” fan-frickin’-tastic, “I-i-t’s about you…and Lumen. You see, I’ve been thinking about the whole deal with Liddy, and that lead me to think about what he was planning to bust you on,” great. I’m looking right at him and he’s barely moving. I knew that Quinn finding out about Liddy was only a small part of my problem.

After a long silence, Quinn begins to speak again, “I’m not sure exactly what you two were up to, but whatever it was, you can tell me.” “Ok, but it’s really not as bad as you probably think.” “Dexter, I know this isn’t easy for you, but I think you’ll tell me when you’re ready.” I wouldn’t be so sure.

“Oh, and by the way,” why won’t he just leave? “If Deb asks, there was heavy traffic yesterday on your way home.” “Okay then, sure thing.”

________________________________________

It’s frightening how giddy I almost feel with anticipation. Well, as giddy as a Dark Passenger-driven person can be, that is. “Dexter, do you really think that this is going to make it any better?” Harry: trying to complicate my life. “It can’t make it any worse. I just _need_ to kill someone.”

“Dexter, people are starting to figure things out,” gee, thanks. “Do you really want Quinn to find out your secret? His knowing is only a few steps away from Deb knowing, and that would go against what I’ve taught you, son.” “I know, dad, ‘don’t get caught.’ But what if people can handle my secret? Or at least, what if they can handle part of it?” I smooth out some plastic wrap on the inside of Charles Pinkard’s shed.

“You know for yourself Dexter that someone knowing part of your life only leads to them knowing the rest.” Shit, fathers do really know best. But what’s a serial killer to do?

“You still haven’t answered my question Dexter: why do you _need_ to kill this man?” I just do.

________________________________________

Mr. Pinkard should be arriving back here in the next half hour. And so the wait– _[Phone rings.]_ Really? REALLY? Do my Passenger and I ever get to rendezvous any more?

It’s Sonya, “Hello. Oh, I’ll be right there.” Gah!

________________________________________

_Dexter arrives at home, frustrated after having to give up yet another kill for the night. But then he sees Sonya: she’s pale and emerging from the bathroom._

Tonight was not the night, but I should still be okay for tomorrow. “Sonya, are you alright?” “Yeah. I guess I just got some food poisoning. Harrison’s fine–” she’s cut off by a sudden bout of nausea and she makes a b-line for my bathroom.

“I best be on my way now,” she says, re-entering the room. “Here,” I say, while passing her some soda crackers, “Feel better,” so I can kill again…I mean…ah, screw it, it’s true.

“Bye, bye, Harrison!” “Die, die!”

________________________________________

“So did you talk to him today?” _Deb asks within seconds of when Quinn arrives at home_ , “Yep, I did. He said he hit some traffic on the way home yesterday.” “Thanks for doing that. I would have over-reacted, and of course, there was nothing to worry about. I’m such a fucking nut-job sometimes.” “But a very cute one,” he answers.

_Deb and Quinn laugh it off and quickly move on to making plans for dinner, Deb seemingly unaware of the secrets that Quinn is hiding. He hates lying to her, but Deb’s been through way too much in the past few years for him to even fathom messing that up even more. She’s been especially estranged from herself for the past few months. She told Quinn about letting the barrel girl and her partner in crime go, which caused a small amount of friction between them, but she still hasn’t figured out whom they were. She has a soft spot for vigilantes in love, and a blind spot for Dexter._

________________________________________

“Morning, Angel. Bear claw?” “My favourite,” Batista replies. “Vince, doughnut?” “ _‘Cause it’s voodoo, voodoo…_ ” he grabs a Boston cream doughnut, “ _Under your spell_ …”

More cases to finish, then Charles Pinkard will be on my table. Tonight’s the night, damn it. It has to be. “ _I’m so obsessed with your sexiness, ye-ahhhh!! ‘Cause it’s–_ ” I close my door. I’m happy for Vince, but a man needs quiet to do blood-spatter analysis.

“Hey! I’m just sharing the love. Gawd!” Masuka says while re-opening my door. “Well, I’m good for now, Vince.” He gives me an awkward stare and re-closes my door, continuing to sing and hum.

________________________________________

After a few hours at the office, I feign a similar kind of digestive distress to what Sonya experienced, ‘Yeah, there must be something going around,’ and I leave work without having to stop for drinks with Masuka, Batista, or God forbid, Quinn. Now I have a chance to make my way to the other side of the city and still be home in time to relieve Sonya. Yes, she is feeling much better today. I’m not entirely cruel.

________________________________________

Tonight’s the night. But where is Charles Pinkard? I’ve been waiting in the shadows of his office building and he still hasn’t emerged from his meetings. I haven’t even seen his Beemer.

So, I suppose he must be at home.

________________________________________

Ok, this is _not_ funny. His car isn’t here either. His house is quite dark actually, so I’m not sure where he is. I think I’ll take a look around this place.

_Dexter walks around the outside of Charles Pinkard’s house and sees no one at all. Since the man’s staff isn’t even there, Dexter decides to check out his kill room. He walks up to the large shed to find the lock out of its place._

What’s going on? _[He opens the door and just stares absently into the room.]_ Did the cleaning lady take down my kill room? All of my hard work is gone. _[He flicks on the light switch.]_ Shit.

_Dexter is in dismay. His kill table is there and in tact, but right on top of it is an unmistakable marking…_

A bloody infinity symbol.


	4. Fog Bound

‘Don’t get caught.’

Sure I can clean up after my kills and even keep my colleagues from finding out about Dexter’s Dark Passenger, but sometimes I feel like I don’t care about getting caught, I just need to kill someone. Now I’ve been beaten to two, _two_ of my prospective kills and my Passenger claws at me from the inside. And sure, I cleaned up after the Charles Pinkard fiasco–I really don’t want my failed kill to be on display, not so that some other vigilante can mock my apparent ineptitude in the kill room–but I’m tired of resisting my Darkness. Dexter will not be defeated.

“So what does the blood say, Dexter?” Angel asks me as I remember that I am, in fact, at a crime scene. “It looks consistent with the other stabbing from last week,” I tell him, “and of course,” I regrettably say, “that infinity symbol over there probably matches the blood from our vic. I’ll tell you as soon as I run the blood work, Angel.” He nods and says, “Thanks.”

Yes, you heard me right. It’s another killing from our vigilante friend. The funny thing is that I had no (immediate) plans on killing this guy. I’ve had no kill plans since the last incident. So that makes me wonder, has my newfound nemesis moved on?

My Dark Passenger tells me so.

________________________________________

As I enter my small but sufficient lab, my Passenger is still gnawing at my insides. Its deafening whispers torment me, ‘ _Hang the code, Dexter. Just kill someone, anyone. I won’t tell,_ ’ ‘I wish it were that easy,’ ‘ _It is. Trust in me._ ’

I can’t even hear Harry’s voice any more–he’s entirely disappeared from my conscience. Hell, does my conscience even exist, or am I just trying to mimic one? Tonight’s the night where I at least need to try; I’m having yet another dinner with Quinn.

________________________________________

_Laguerta is sitting in her office when Captain Matthews enters and closes the door behind him. She is aware that he was supposed to stop by: she arranged it. She knew that she’d have to make a press statement about the vigilante killings._

“So Lieutenant, what are you going to tell them?”

________________________________________

As I enter the restaurant, I see Quinn at a table and take a seat. Before I even get the chance to ask him why he invited me to dinner, he says, “I need to get your opinion,” as he nervously takes a small box out of his jacket pocket. He opens the box to reveal a ring with a rather large diamond. I forgot how much money he had.

“Wow, it’s really, uh, big,” I say, and a young waitress with colorful makeup stops at our table and whispers to me, “Say ‘yes!’” Wait, what? Quinn shoots her a confused look and she winks at him, then he bursts out laughing awkwardly as she heads for the kitchen.

“Wait, did she think that we were…together?” I say confusedly, “I think so,” he says, “but seriously, Dex, what do you think?” “She’ll love it.”

After we finally get into a conversation about Deb’s taste in flowers, the same waitress returns. She’s carrying a piece of cake with two forks. “Congratulations, you two!” She says in hushed tones as to not draw attention, especially because of the odd looks from the couple at the next table.

When she leaves, I slide the cake towards Quinn and say, “At least we got a free dessert.”

________________________________________

_Dexter is still asleep in the morning having only finally been tired enough to ignore his Passenger for the last two hours. It’s been a tormented sleep that is quickly stopped when his phone rings. Dexter sluggishly answers._

“Hello?” “Hey, turn on the TV Dex. Fuck, this is not my day. Laguerta totally blindsided me,” my sister answers, “Oh, ok” I manage to respond before making my way to the TV and turning it on. Gotta love portable phones.

_Laguerta is on the news–it’s an early-morning (well, early for someone who’s tired) press conference._

“ _…But anyone who has any information on the vigilante should contact the Miami Metro Homicide Department…_ ”

I don’t know how to react, but for now I’ll play the role of an over-worked brother and blood-spatter analyst who’s too busy to think clearly. “She didn’t tell you about this, Deb?” “No. I just wish we had _something_ on this guy before she said something,” “It could be worse, maybe someone will call in with a good lead,” “Yeah, but this guy’s practically fucking Houdini. If someone knew something we’d at least have some evidence to get this guy.”

Tell me about it.

________________________________________

“Bye, bye Harrison,” I say to my son while anxiously trying to leave him with Sonya and get to work…late.

“Can I talk to you for a second, Dexter?” “I really have to go–” but I’m cut off, “Now, I don’t want to make any assumptions, but I have a feeling you’re not being completely honest with me, or Debra,” oh, great, “I’m sure you’re just busy, but I don’t want a repeat of what happened before where you left me with Harrison much longer than what you told me. I just want to make sure that you’re there for your son, and that everything’s okay.” She finishes speaking and I am without an idea of how to react. Where are you, Harry, when I need you?

I look at her confusedly, what happened? “Debra stopped by a few weeks ago, and you weren’t here when you said you were going to be. I thought that wasn’t a big deal until it happened again with her, and with all the phone calls you’ve missed–is everything okay?” I wish Quinn had given me a bit more of a heads-up, like these kinds of details.

“Yeah, everything’s fine. Can we talk about this later?” “Sure, take care” She says, smiling, as I head out the door.

________________________________________

“Lieutenant, can I ask you something?” _Deb asks Laguerta from the door of the Lieutenant’s office_ , “Sure, come in Detective. I kind of figured you’d want to know what was going on,” “No shit. We don’t have any evidence on this vigilante guy–or whatever he is, and you told the press?”

 _Laguerta studies Deb, and then asks_ , “You didn’t catch my whole statement, did you?” “Wait, what the fuck are you talking about?” “Ask Masuka,” _Laguerta replies, and Deb leaves to talk to the lovesick lab rat_.

________________________________________

Dear Dexter can’t even get his morning coffee without seeing newspapers that have either of my colleagues mentioned on the front page–Laguerta, and the vigilante of course. As I try to read the newspaper of a guy sitting at a table nearby, someone taps me on the shoulder, “It’s your turn,” “Oh, thanks,” I say to her. Dazed Dexter definitely does not want decaf this morning.

________________________________________

“ _You can run, you can hide, but you can’t escape my–_ ” “Hey lover boy,” _Deb interrupts Masuka_ , “SO, Laguerta said that you know something about my vigilante,” “Right,” _he says, rolling his office chair across to a purple folder. Handing it to her he says,_ “Turn to the picture of the back door where our killer walked in,” _she complies, and studying the written part of the report she spots something_ …

“Oh my God–”

________________________________________

_Dexter walks out of the elevator and into the Miami Metro Homicide Department. Before he makes it into his office, he’s practically ambushed by Deb and Masuka._

“Dexter, you’re never gonna believe this,” my sister tells me, “we’ve got the vigilante’s hair,” is it all over? Has Vince Masuka found the DNA of the killer who’s tormented my Passenger?

“So you have his DNA then?” I ask them, “Well, I’ll explain…” Masuka tauntingly tells me. “What do you mean?” “Her hair’s been coloured, a lot. It’s too damaged to get DNA from it. So that’s probably why no one’s been able to get her. But she finally tripped up,” “Vince, what are you trying to say? So the killer is a woman now? I’m hoping you have blood,” I say.

“Yes, she is. And she pricked herself on the bushes outside. She probably didn’t even realize that she’d cut herself. I almost couldn’t see the blood…but I’m awesome so­–” “Masuka, please,” Deb interjects. “Okay, okay. She’s not in the database, or any database for that matter, but at least we have a start,” Masuka says, with confidence.

“Wait,” I say, “then how do you know that this woman is the killer?” “Ah, I was hoping you’d ask that,” Masuka says, “because I found some evidence from the Tommy Gray crime scene that I hadn’t really noticed until now,” he pulls out an evidence bag, “I found her DNA on this lipstick that I found at that club, ‘Fever,’ and it stuck out to me because the club is almost exclusively male, and we found tons of other DNA from the makeup we found there. But this DNA was female.”

“That means,” says Deb, “I have a lot more witnesses to question.”

________________________________________

‘ _They’ll catch her before you do anyway. Just kill someone, Dexter. What are you so afraid of?_ ’ ‘You’re right.’

_Dexter storms out of his lab, knife in hand, and proceeds to stab Masuka in the middle of his rendition of Katy Perry’s “Teenage Dream” until the two of them are completely soaked in blood. As Deb attempts to stop him, he pushes her aside and stabs Quinn repeatedly. With his two colleagues dead, Batista is handcuffing Dexter while Deb presses a gun into the side of her brother’s head. Just as Captain Matthews storms into the room, Dexter manages to shove the throng of cops off of him momentarily before he falls to the ground on his side, losing his hearing in one ear to a distant ringing sound._

_Suddenly, both ears are functioning and he hears music again._

“… _Let you put your hands on me in your skin tight jeans, be your teenage dream tonight_ …”

_Dexter quickly realizes that he is at his desk, and Masuka and Quinn are both alive._

Huh. Why would I bring a knife to work?

Batista walks into my office and I am reassured that I haven’t killed anyone, “Hey Angel, here are the blood results you needed,” I hand him the folder, “The blood from the vic matches the blood from the infinity symbol.” “Thanks, Dexter.”

________________________________________

_Quinn and Deb are finally home from work. While Deb looks over a file, Quinn is in the next room. He re-enters with a bouquet of white roses._

“Deb,” _Quinn says softly, and Deb looks up,_ “We need to talk,” _he continues, giving her the flowers._ “Are you okay?” _she asks_ , “Never better.” _He moves across the room towards her, slightly shaky, but then reassures himself and becomes steadier._

“Deb, I love you and I can’t see myself with anyone else but you,” _he says, going down on one knee beside her and taking out the enormous ring he bought. She begins to tear up slightly._

“Will you marry me, Debra Morgan?”


	5. Poor Unfortunate Souls

“So what can you tell me about that night? Do you remember anything unusual?” “Well…I don’t really, and I’m not sure I can be of much help. It was our Gaga night–we have those every once in a while, so it’s more than just our usual crowd. And with all the wigs, lipstick, lashes, and so on, _anyone_ could be there.” “Damn, that’s too bad. Maybe your security cameras caught something?” _The man across the table shakes his head._ “Sorry, hun. I wish I could help but like I said, everyone was in full costume. Besides, we can only really see who’s going in and out of the club. I can give you the tapes if you think it’ll help though. And maybe I can ask around–see if anyone saw anything.”

“Thanks. Anything would help, Brad.” _Deb replies, handing her business card to the man,_ “No problem, I–” _but something catches his eye,_ “ooh, honey! Is that new?” _Deb blushes and gazes at her other hand._ He must’ve seen it when he looked down, “Yep,” “Congrats, girl!” “Thanks,” _she replies, grinning as Quinn enters the room_.

“And this must be the lucky guy­…I know that look” _Brad replies, then says to her,_ “He’s cute!”

________________________________________

“Pick up the fucking phone, Dex. I need to see you, ASAP…I don’t wanna talk about this over the phone, but I can’t exactly wait for you to get back to me when I haven’t seen or heard from you in three days…”

This is only one message out of the dozens that my sister has left for me since the other night. Between my business at work–especially with all the court appearances I’ve had to put in because of said work, and Deb’s hectic search for the vigilante, we basically haven’t been in the vicinity of one another in that time.

Today I’m not even at work until around lunchtime because I have to deal with at least another crime scene before darling Detective Deb can call me the bad brother that I am. Oh, and my Passenger hasn’t been so easy on me lately.

________________________________________

As I finally get to the station after the crime scene (which by the way was thankfully not the work of the vigilante), I see Deb leaving the building to have lunch. I can’t really avoid what I know she’s going to tell me any longer.

“Dex! Why didn’t you call me back?” “I was too busy, Deb. Sorry,” surprisingly, she doesn’t take it as badly as I expect her to. Instead, she changes her mood and fights to hide her smile, “Notice anything?” she prompts, “seriously, bro. You’re kidding me,” she says, responding to my blank stare. Hey, Deb likes to have her moment. Besides, this is the only way that deranged Dexter knows how to act when it comes to these things; honesty’s much too complicated.

She thrusts her hand in my face, “I got engaged, Dex.” “To Quinn?” “No, to Masuka. Of course to Quinn,” she says laughing. “Congratulations,” I respond, and she practically pushes me over with a bear hug. I just awkwardly pat her on the back.

“Wanna go for lunch?” “I can’t, I’ve got to do the blood work on this case–” but before I can go, my favorite new friend shows up, “C’mon Dexter, you really gotta come with us. My treat,” Quinn says, far too enthusiastically. “Sure,” I reply, “I just have to put something upstairs first,” I say, heading inside the building. Deb and Quinn shrink away momentarily as I quiet my Passenger: ‘Don’t even think about it. I won’t kill them.’

________________________________________

_It’s the end of the day and Batista is just about ready to leave the station. Masuka approaches him._

“Can I ask you a question, Angel?” “Sure, Vince.” _Batista replies, thinking that whatever Masuka is about to ask has something to do with a case. He quickly realizes he’s wrong by Masuka’s expression,_ “What should I get Viv for her birthday?”

So that’s her name, “I don’t know, Vince. What does she like?” “I guess I could get her jewelry? Chicks dig that stuff, right?” “Yeah, but you should probably ask someone like Deb, or even Dexter to help you pick it…you remember what happened when I tried buying an anniversary gift a few years ago” _Bastista says, laughing. Putting a hand on Masuka’s shoulder, he says,_ “Best of luck, my friend.”

“Thanks,” _Masuka replies,_ “hehehe, if I get her something really nice, I’ll have to buy the neighbors some ear plugs ‘cause we’re gonna–” “I got it Vince,” _Batista replies, cutting off his excited friend before he gets any unwanted mental pictures._

_The two men laugh and Batista leaves with Laguerta when Masuka returns to his lab. They can hear Masuka laughing as they board the elevator, and he starts singing again._

“It’s nice that he looks up to you, and to _us_ , Angel. You’re a good friend.”

________________________________________

“Thanks for taking care of Harrison again, Sonya” “As usual he was a wonderful little boy, Dexter,” she replies.

Ok, she’s gone. I _need_ to find another victim; I’ve had no time alone and my determined Passenger has decided to derail my attempt at normalcy. Every time I try to ignore it, my Dark Passenger’s voice cancels out any other sounds I hear.

_Dexter takes the cover off his air conditioning unit and pulls out the familiar wooden box that now taunts him. He opens the box and glides his finger over his trophies, making sure to touch each one._

These trophies don’t even feel like they belong to me anymore: they belong to the Passenger. It owns me.

________________________________________

‘ _You’re nothing without me, Dexter. You can’t even kill someone–someone else is better than you. Just drive somewhere and kill someone…_ ’

The Dark Passenger’s no longer tries to whisper in my ear, it just yells at me, waking me from my quiet slumber. This part, the volume, overcomes its message. It even speaks over itself, jumbling its speech. Now all I can hear is, ‘ _Kill._ ’

I’ve had it. I _need_ quiet more than I need to kill. But I need to kill for the dark voice in my head to silence.

________________________________________

_Dexter is waiting in his car in full kill attire with his M99-filled syringe in his pocket and his kill tools on the passenger seat. Because of the poor timing of this event, Dexter had to ask his neighbor to watch Harrison, claiming that there was an emergency. So, ice cream lady is taking care of the unknowing child whose father is outside of the late Mitch Adam’s favorite bar._

‘ _That guy–kill him. He’s like_ us _, Dexter,_ ’ the Passenger tells me. I have to comply, what other choice do I have?

The parking lot at the back of this bar is quiet; it’s closing time. The man we see is drunk and stumbling–this is too easy. I approach him from the shadows and inject the tranquilizer into his neck. He’s living proof of the ‘beer belly,’ so when his body goes limp it’s not the easiest task to put him in the back of my minivan.

________________________________________

Using some supplies that I found here and the extra duct tape I had at home, I set up a makeshift kill room in the abandoned maintenance shed of a park. I know it’s abandoned because the park is completely unkempt.

He’s awake. Let’s get this started.

“What the fuck is goin’ on?” my victim asks, a look of terror and simultaneous confusion in his glazed eyes. “I’m going to kill you,” is all I can say. I don’t even have pictures of his past victims on the walls. Shit, I don’t even know who he is. While slicing his cheek, I say, “I know what you are. You need to be put down.”

The man looks confused. ‘ _Ignore that look, Dexter. He_ deserves _it, just kill him,_ ’ ‘I don’t even care right now. I just don’t want you back in my life.’

_Upon these words to his Passenger, Dexter tapes his victim’s mouth shut. He grabs a large butcher knife and raises it above the man’s squirming form before plunging it into his heart._

 “Both of you must die.”

________________________________________

As I toss my victim’s body into the ocean, I can feel the mist from the ocean hitting my face. The sun is starting to come up, but I should make it back home pretty soon. I don’t know how to explain this feeling (if I can even call it that), but I don’t feel as empty as I feel _clean_. Well, compared to before that is.

________________________________________

The Dark Passenger has not spoken to me since I killed that man, but now I don’t even hear Harry’s voice. “Hey, Dex! Got a second?” Right now it’s just Masuka’s voice in my lab.

“Sure, Vince.” “Ok, what do you think of this?” he says, putting a small box in front of me. Apparently I’m the resident jewelry adviser for the Miami Metro Homicide Department. I open the box to reveal a sapphire pendant, “It’s nice, Vince. Is this for your girlfriend?” “Yup, hehehe…so, do you think she’ll like it?” “I’d double-check with someone else if I were you, but I think so.”

Masuka takes the box back to his lab giggling and humming.

________________________________________

“Yeah, Masuka she’ll like it,” _Deb says, trying to get through the conversation so she can head off to the interview room that awaits her,_ “You sure, ‘cause I don’t wanna mess things up–” “She’ll love it, ‘k?” _She says, running off to greet her next interviewee._

________________________________________

“So, Enrique is it?” “Yes ma’am,” _he responds._ “What can you tell me about the night Tommy Gray was murdered?” _Deb asks him, but suddenly, the man begins to sob uncontrollably._ “Jesus, you okay? I’m guessing you two were close…” “He was a really good friend–none of us expected that he was a killer,” _he chokes out before another bout of sobbing._

“I know it must be hard for you, but could you please tell me if you saw anything that night that seemed unusual? Or maybe you heard something?” _Deb asks, taken aback by Enrique’s reaction. As he calms down, he begins to speak,_ “I might know something that I can tell you…”

________________________________________

“Quinn!” _Deb practically pushes over her partner,_ “Holy mother of fuck you are not gonna _believe_ what that Enrique guy just told me.”

________________________________________

Silence. It’s the best sound in the world right now, even though I can’t hear my father’s guiding voice. Dexter was in need of some freedom. Sure, Harrison is chattering away and I’m watching a re-run of ‘Mythbusters’ (it’s the duct tape episode–coincidence, I promise), but at least the Dark Passenger is silent.

“Harrison, it’s just you and me,” I say, to my son while giving him a toy to play with, “Dada!” he exclaims. Wow, for once something normal.

_Dexter hears a knock at the door and gets up from the couch. He turns off the television and puts Harrison in his crib. He’s hesitant, but then opens the door. As he does so, he is completely taken off guard and breathes in sharply, pausing before he speaks:_

“Lumen?”


	6. On Stranger Tides

Tonight’s the night, and it’s going to happen again and again. It needs to happen; it has to happen. The icy voice inside me brings me to the edge of something magnificent and I don’t fight it–I embrace it. Lurking in the shadows I see _him_ , but I can’t kill him yet. He’s preoccupied - with _her_. I can’t kill her either–it was his fault; she hardly fits my code.

I drive onwards to find tonight’s victim, waiting for the disguise of darkness to let me do my deed; I leave behind the kill that my demon hungers for more than anything. The man is a monster, a devotedly deranged killer­; but his Dark Passenger ignores mine, leaving cold talons grasping at my insides: unsatisfied.

‘I will kill him.’

________________________________________

I just stare at her, unable to think of what I should say. I haven’t even moved yet; I’m planted in place with the door halfway open. Finally, I break my bewildered silence: “Why–?” I say, barely making any sound. Maybe that wasn’t the most intelligent phrase I could have said.

“I had to, Dexter. I was worried,” she starts. I open the door wider and motion for her to come inside, and she only slightly moves forward. Did I do something wrong? She’s beginning to tear up.

Then, instead of heading fully into my apartment, she gives me a faint smile and pulls me into a hug.

________________________________________

“Why are you doing this to me? I have a family, I have kids, I–” but I cut off my victim by shoving a gag in his mouth. “You and I both know that’s not true. I know what you are. Besides,” I say, “you’ve had your turn.”

________________________________________

“So, have you been–” “Killing?” I finish for Lumen, to her relief. I can’t lie to her, “Only once,” I say, but then I feel compelled to tell her the rest, “It was only a few days ago.” She seems surprised, but I can’t blame her. “Do you still feel– the ‘need’?” I figured she might ask this, “Yes. But, something – or some _one_ – I guess, has been in my way until now.” “Oh?” she prompts.

________________________________________

I take a needle and syringe and extract blood from the arm of the almost-dead man. When I’m ready, I hold up my crimson brush to his living room wall; my Passenger approves. His eyes light up in the realization of who I am and he shakes with fear, then disgust.

________________________________________

I hear a rustle, but it’s not from outside. A deep echoing inside me sounds as my Passenger readjusts itself. ‘ _Hello, Dexter Morgan._ ’ I shut my eyes and clench my teeth: I feel so cold.

“Are you okay, Dexter?” Lumen asks me, “I thought I was.”

________________________________________

I hold a knife up to the throat of my whimpering victim: “This is for their sins,” I say, ending his reign.

________________________________________

I’ve explained as best as I can what I’ve been through since she left (at least, about how the vigilante has beaten me to two of my kills, the Dark Passenger, and my sense of emptiness), and Lumen has not run away from my lack of humanity. She asks me: “What happened just now? Is it back?” “No,” I say, “I don’t think it ever left me.”

So, with all my confessions laid out for her, I think I have a few questions for Lumen myself: “You said you were worried – what were you worried about?” “The vigilante,” she answers, “I heard that there is a vigilante in Miami, who’s killing other vigilantes. I couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to you.”

“But, how did you know? I thought you were back home in Minnesota…” I say, perplexed. “I was, but I’ve been following the news in Miami,” she pauses, then continues – this time looking more directly at me, “As much as I know we can’t be together, I don’t belong at home either. You’re the only person who I don’t have to lie to.” I suppose, Lumen is the same for me.

If ever there was a time to feel helpless, then I think this would be it. I’m the only person that Lumen can rely on, but I don’t even consider myself a person on any level. I feel nothing. The worst part is that my deceitful Passenger won’t leave, and Lumen needs me to be human.

“Aren’t you afraid that you could be killed too?” I ask her, “I mean, you’ve killed two people – bad people – so wouldn’t you fit the vigilante’s ‘code’?” “It doesn’t matter,” she says, “I need to do for you what you did for me; you healed me.”

________________________________________

After my heart-to- (void, I guess?) with Lumen last night, she insisted on staying in a motel, which is probably safer – considering that there’s possibly a killer after dear old Dexter; although, I don’t want her to go unprotected and passenger-less-ly into the path of my dark nemesis.

________________________________________

“Man, it’s like the killer is taunting us,” my sister says, staring down at the vigilante’s latest victim, “Right when we’re trying to sort out this fucking mess he-I mean, _she_ , goes and kills someone else.” Tell me about it. “Oh, and Dex I’ve got to tell you about what we’ve been hearing from–” “… _Life would be a party, it’d be ecstasy! If I had you, y-y-y-y-y-you, y-y–_ ” “Seriously, Masuka?” Quinn interjects. The nerdy little man continues dancing and pointing at random people while humming the tune.

I collect the usual blood samples, take pictures, and try to imagine what Deb’s witnesses could possibly tell me. “So, did Deb tell you what we found out about the Tommy Gray murder?” Quinn says, “No, she hasn’t told me yet. She seemed excited though. What is it she wanted to tell me?” “I’ll let her tell you–I don’t want to steal her thunder.” He says, winking and walking away.

“ _If I had YOOOUUU!!_ ” Masuka bursts out, thrashing his head around with particular emphasis on the ‘you.’ He detects my odd staring, “I always do that at this part,” he informs me. “Ok, Vince.”

________________________________________

“Someone sent this to a– Debra Morgan, is that right? It’s from some guy named Brad…” _someone says, holding up a video tape_ , “That’s _Detective_ Debra Morgan. I’ll be sure to get it to her,” _Quinn answers, taking the tape_.

_Quinn examines the box that the tape is in before putting it on Deb’s desk. As he does so, Dexter exits the elevator and walks towards him._

“Hey, Quinn. Have you seen Deb?” I ask, going to my lab. “She isn’t back yet.” “Oh, okay.” Hmm, that’s strange. My patience is wearing thin.

________________________________________

“Hey, you’re here,” I say to my sister. “Yeah, I forgot something at the crime scene and had to go back,” she tells me. “So what did you find out about the Tommy Gray murder? Quinn wouldn’t tell me.” She fights away a grin and closes the door of my lab behind her.

“This guy I was interviewing, Enrique, told me that he walked in on Tommy Gray having sex – with a _woman_ – at ‘Fever’ the night he was murdered” “…And there weren’t really any women at the club, were there?” “Not that anyone knows, Dex. No wonder Enrique just about fucking had a nervous breakdown when I interviewed him…Let’s just hope he gives a decent description when we get a guy in to make sketches for us.” “Yeah, hope so. Good luck.” “Thanks,” she says, leaving.

_Despite being happy that she might catch the vigilante killer, Deb leaves disappointed in herself that she didn’t confront the vigilante in front of her._

It’s not time – _yet_.

________________________________________

_Dexter is in his car, leaving the station, after having dealt with the blood work from the vigilante’s latest kill; the victim bled out from a slice to his throat, of course. Dexter is somewhat surprised that his foe killed again, considering that he himself only killed a short while earlier. He dials Lumen’s phone number._

“Dexter?” “Hi, Lumen. Meet me at the marina?”

________________________________________

“Did Masuka just _skip_ back to his lab?” “Uh, I think so, Maria,” _Batista replies, heading over to his colleague_. “Vince?” _Masuka turns around, realizing that people just saw him,_ “How did your girlfriend like the gift you got her?” _Batista asks, almost not needing an answer._ “I’m allowed to skip…it’s a free country,” _he defends, not really needing to,_ “But yeah, she totally loved it. Hehehe…” “Glad to hear it.” “Angel, while you’re hear, can I ask you something? It’s crime-scene related, promise.” “Okay, I guess–” “Great,” _Masuka says, cutting him off_.

“Look at this,” _he says, passing Batista a photo from the crime scene_ , “Do you see anything, I don’t know, _different_ about this kill from the others so far?” “Am I supposed to, Vince?”

 _Masuka knows he’s basically teasing Batista with this photo,_ “Okay, okay. Here’s a close up shot of some of the evidence we found–” _but he doesn’t need to continue_. “Are these–?” “Fucking finger prints. She took her sweet time killing our vic. She even left behind her paintbrush–you know, the one she used for the blood–and that’s what you’re looking at right now. You’d think she _wants_ to get caught.”

 _After a bit of a pause, Batista comes to somewhat of a realization,_ “She thinks this is too easy, so she’s _creating_ a challenge.”

________________________________________

“I thought this might be a good place to talk,” I say to Lumen as we make our way out into open water, away from the docks at the marina. “There’s been a lot going on with Quinn lately; he’s been asking about you, and us…” “What does he know so far?” Lumen asks, “He knows that I killed Liddy, but that’s mostly because he figured it out on his own, and I couldn’t really deny it.”

Lumen looks slightly startled and worried by this last statement, so, reassuringly, I say: “He doesn’t know about everything else, like you being the escaped barrel girl, or us killing off Jordan Chase and the other men who hurt you. If it helps, Deb knows less than Quinn does,” “How can you be sure?” “Because, he said that he owes me after I cleared him with the blood work I did for Liddy’s murder.”

“Okay, but how do you know that he doesn’t know any more than that? He’s a detective, so he’ll eventually figure out what we did–maybe even that you’ve killed before all of that,” “You’re right, I can’t be sure,” I respond as the relatively calm waters become slightly more aggressive.

________________________________________

The problem with meeting someone outside in Florida is that there’s always a good chance of rain. So, here I am: arriving back at home.

I open my door to the anxious Sonya who leaves so fast that I barely hear a ‘hello’ or ‘goodbye,’ but I can see that Harrison is happily sleeping away, St. Brigid watching over him.

This scene is juxtaposed by my strange sense that something is different – thanks to my compulsive nature. I stare at the shelf underneath my air conditioner; there are pieces of broken plastic and glass on the floor, but most of them must have been cleaned up. On the shelf itself, a candle that usually faces upright is turned upside down, likely because its stand broke off when it must have been knocked over.

It could be worse.

Still, I should check my box of blood slides–just in case. _[Dexter reaches for the cover of the air conditioner and upon removing it realizes something…]_ It wasn’t put on right; that’s _not_ a mistake that diligent Dexter would make.

_He puts the cover down on another, larger, shelf and opens his wooden box of trophies, running his finger over each one, as per usual. Doing so, he feels a pain in his finger._

Shit, I’m bleeding. _[He takes out the slide that hurt him.]_ It’s broken. Only this slide is broken.

That doesn’t make any sense.


	7. Americano

Faceless. Unidentifiable. It could be anyone.

Yet, my sister has been pouring over the sketch for weeks. The artist who did the portrait of the vigilante could barely get any information from Deb’s witness, so her crosschecking the picture with the security footage from the night of Tommy Gray’s murder has been (to say the least) unproductive.

“I-I n-need more – more…c-cof-ffee…” says the disheveled Detective Debra. “How much have you had?” “Only th-three cups…i-in the l-last hour,” she admittedly stammers. “That’s what I thought. It’s getting late anyways, you should probably go home.” “No, n-no I c-can’t! I’m g-gonna catch this k-killer, D-dexter, I-” but I take the pot of too-old-coffee away from her, pour myself the last cup of the bitter beverage, and force myself to drink some of it before Deb can. Bleh.

“Fuck you! That was m- _my_ coffee. MY coffee!” she says angrily before grabbing a packet of Girl Guide cookies from the cupboard. “If I c-can’t have caffeine, I’m at least g-gonna – gonna have s-sugar,” she says indignantly, heading back to re-watch the tape again.

________________________________________

“Hi, hi, Harrison!” I say, picking up my son. Sonya is about to leave – she’s been leaving faster than usual since the incident where I found my broken trophy. “Can I ask you something quickly, Sonya?” “I have to go – sorry, Dexter. But maybe next time.” And with that, she rushes out the door.

________________________________________

_Lumen is in her motel room, staring at the floor. She’s trying to figure out what to tell Dexter; ‘should I even tell him?’ she wonders. But tonight is not the night for that. Then, she finally hears the knock on her door that she’s been waiting for all evening. She opens the door to the other woman._

“Ready?”

________________________________________

 _[Harrison’s crying wakes Dexter; he gets up from the couch.]_ “It’s okay, Harrison. Shhhhh…” I say, turning off the quietly playing History Channel. It’s 1:03 am. I pick Harrison up and carry him to the front door to get some air. The handle refuses to turn; my hand is slipping.

Attempt after attempt, the door will not open.

I step back to put Harrison down before I try again. But, as I put my son back in his crib, the door flies open, practically breaking off of its hinges. “Hello?” I call out, but no one is there. I turn around, and Harrison is no longer in his crib.

_Everything turns red for Dexter and he falls, crashing into a puddle of blood two inches deep. Then, getting up from the bleeding floor, Dexter sees the silhouette of a man._

“Harry?” I ask, hardly able to see. But he stays in the shadows, whispering: “ _No._ ” “Then who are you?” He doesn’t answer; someone comes up from behind and injects a needle in the man’s neck – I feel it in mine too.

“Only I can save you,” the leather-cloaked man tells me, letting the first man drop to the floor.

_Dexter loses consciousness momentarily before finding that he is staring at himself in his bathroom mirror. His cheek starts bleeding, so he tries to wipe away the crimson fluid. His hands both become drenched in blood and the mark on his face turns into a stream of blood running down his neck. He rinses his hands, but the blood does not wash away. He jumps in the shower, fully clothed, and the blood does not drain away. The water coming from the showerhead turns red and Dexter tries to turn off the tap._

_He nearly leaps out of the shower to see that the water is no longer running, and there is no blood to be found. Dexter tries to look at himself in the mirror, but all he sees is his shadow in its reflection. Suddenly, he hears a very loud beeping noise…_

_Dexter hits his alarm clock and sluggishly gets out of bed._

Ah, just another night for Darkly Dreaming Dexter.

________________________________________

“Morning, Vince. Doughnut?” “ _I’m gonna run back to, to the edge with you– where we can both fall far in love! I’m on the edge of glory…_ “I’ll take that as a yes then?” Masuka lets out his signature laugh mid-song and grabs a doughnut, dancing in his chair.

Batista and Deb notice the doughnuts before I get the chance to get to my desk, “Morning, Dexter,” they each say, Deb less clearly than Angel due to her lack of sleep, each of them grabbing doughnuts. “So, Deb, how’s it going with those tapes?” “It’s not. But Quinn and I are going to talk to one of the managers of ‘Fever’ – he was out of town at some Drag conference, but now he’s in town.” “Good luck.” _[Dexter says, going into his office.]_

That’s interesting coming from you.

________________________________________

_Batista hangs up the phone and calls over Dexter, Masuka, Deb and Quinn. There’s another crime scene; it’s more gruesome than the others, but it still seems to be the work of the vigilante._

________________________________________

“I don’t like this.” ‘ _Neither do I._ ’ “Yeah, me neither,” I say to both Deb and my Passenger, staring at a room (a _very_ real one) that is soaked in blood. Hell, there’s so much blood that this time the vigilante had to mark off a spot on the wall where she _didn’t_ want blood; so it’s kind of the reverse of her usual infinity symbol.

The victims’ kitchen (yes, there was more than one victim) is entirely soaked in the red congealing substance. And I recognize the blood spray pattern: chain saw. There must have been four, maybe five victims; their bodies are so torn apart that it’ll take a while to distinguish each victim.

The smallish room seems so large and intimidating now, and I can’t help but feel sick. Neither can my other colleagues by the look of it; Masuka and I are the only two who haven’t run out of the room yet. I can feel my Passenger stirring inside of me: it’s uncomfortable.

The coroner walks in, “I’ll get my team to take the bodies after you take pictures. Just make it fast: it’s hot in here, and this crime scene is not gonna get any prettier.”

________________________________________

I drive slowly past the house where my last victims died. My Passenger tells me: ‘ _He’s back._ ’ ‘Excellent.’

________________________________________

“So have you set a date yet?” I ask Quinn from across my kitchen counter. “No, we’ll wait ‘till all this vigilante bullshit is over – we’re too busy right now. And,” he pauses, “Deb’s been acting strange lately. Has she said anything to you, Dexter?” “I haven’t really seen Deb much lately. You know, maybe at work, but she hasn’t been talking to me.” “She’s probably just thinking about the case right now,” he says.

“She’s been kind of obsessed with those security tapes and that sketch…” I say, passing him a plate of food. “Thanks,” he says, “But yeah, that’s the only lead we’ve got and you know Deb, she _needs_ to catch her killers.” I definitely know what that’s like.

“I’m hungry. Let’s eat,” he says. ‘ _Same._ ’

________________________________________

_Quinn leaves after a dinner in which Dexter still did not reveal anything about his Dark Passenger, as per usual. Within a minute or so of Quinn’s departure, Dexter hears a noise._

What was that? ‘ _There’s someone like you. Another Passenger is trying to hide from me. Follow me…_ ’

My Passenger guides me to someone behind my building. The man looks harmless, but my Dark Passenger assures me that the man deserves to die. I look to the moon for a ‘second opinion’ of sorts, and its light only makes my Passenger’s claim seem truer.

As I stalk through the shadows towards my victim, he pulls out a knife. How should I react? Well, no time to think this one through – he attempts to stab me, but I manage to stab him with the knife I didn’t realize I was holding. ‘ _Now dispose of him, Dexter._ ’ ‘I will but–’

“Dexter? Oh my God,” Quinn says, catching me off guard. Okay, now I know this is a dream. That is, I think it’s a dream. Wait, but now he’s coming towards me, hands in the air to prove that he intends me no harm, no arrest. “I was leaving, but then I saw you leave your apartment – with a _knife_. So I kind of got worried.”

_Quinn takes the knife from Dexter, and guides him back upstairs. He is unsure of what he should do – but for some reason, he does not want to call this in, or (God forbid) tell Deb. No one was likely to see the kill because it was relatively dark out – and Quinn was the only one outside the building, especially the only one who could have been outside with the view he had._

________________________________________

‘ _I think it’s begun. His Passenger is out of control._ ’ ‘Yes, but I had to sacrifice my own victim for him. I still need to kill.’ ‘ _We’ll have our turn._ ’

________________________________________

_Lumen has been staying away from Dexter for a little while, for his sake. She needs to know more – or, in this case, tell more – before she can confront him again. She has the power to destroy him right now. But all she can say is:_

“I’ll admit, Dexter helped me, but I really can’t tell you how I met him. However,” _she says, pausing,_ “He helped me kill the men who hurt me. Please don’t ask me more.” “But I _need_ to know.”

________________________________________

“What happened back there?” Quinn asks me. “I-I don’t really understand. I didn’t even realize I was carrying a knife. It just,” I say, pausing, “happened.”

“These things don’t just ‘happen,’ Dexter. You left your apartment with a knife and killed some guy that you couldn’t have known was there. Fuck, I don’t even know how you knew he had a knife.”

“Well, _I_ didn’t. But my Passenger did.” “What are you talking about?” ‘ _Why did you say that?_ ’ ‘I had to.’ “What did you just say?” “I didn’t say anything, Quinn.” Please tell me he doesn’t actually hear my Passenger.

“Yeah you did, you mentioned some ‘passenger’?” Ok, good he only heard that part. Wait, how is that good? “Actually, let’s talk about this some other time, Dexter. Just don’t do anything crazy and I won’t tell. I have to get home soon.”

________________________________________

_Dexter, after a major slip-up calls Lumen’s number. He needs to talk to someone who understands._

“Lumen?” “Yeah,” _[The voice on the other end of the line responds.]_ “I killed again – Quinn saw. We should probably talk about this somewhere more private, so call me back sometime.”

_The woman hangs up at the sound of shuffling before Lumen re-enters the room._

“Were you just talking to someone?” “Uh, no. I was just thinking out loud. I’ve been busy with a vigilante,” or two, “lately.” “Please don’t do anything that’ll hurt Dexter. I mean, just give me some time with him before you do anything.” “Honestly, I don’t know what the fuck I’m gonna do yet. But call me sometime so we can talk about it.”

“Oh, okay Deb.”


	8. Catch a Falling Star

“ _…Now I know my ABCs, next time won’t you sing with me?_ ”

Finally, we’re done. Let me emphasize that again: _finally_. As much fun as it is singing with a bunch of other parents while our one-year-olds sit drooling and attempting to mumble along with the song, I really don’t enjoy blending in. Maybe it’s just the heat today – I can practically feel my skin melting. Not to mention, it’s not the most comfortable thing for Harrison to endure. Damn those weather forecasters; it was supposed to be breezy this fine Sunday afternoon.

Right as I am leaving with Harrison, single moms assault me (one in particular has been persistent). “So, Dexter, is it?” Don’t pretend you don’t know my name, “Uh, last time I checked.” “You’re so funny!” she says, giggling and playfully hitting me. “Thanks?” I say, trying to get to my car. Great, she’s following me.

“I was just… _thinking_ …Dexter, do you want to schedule a play date?” “Uh…I’m not sure, aren’t the kids still a little young for that?” “But you’re not,” she says, winking. “Oh, I’m flattered, but,” I have to kill somebody, “I’m busy with work right now.” “Right, stopping bad guys. Maybe some other time,” she says walking away dejected, but hiding it with a half-smile.

Phew. I really don’t have time to add more social interactions into my life right now – especially the ones that I don’t fully understand.

I feel the familiar cold claws and rustling feathers scratching at my soulless guts. ‘Where?’ I ask. ‘ _There,_ ’ a thousand screeching voices reply at once. Scanning my surroundings I can only see other parents at the park, and the only other cars are mom- and dad-mobiles. ‘I don’t see what you’re talking about-’ but then I see someone that makes my Passenger assault my insides, refusing to let go.

‘It can’t be – there’s no way…’ ‘ _It is, Dexter. While you were distracted, you missed her. She’s the one._ ’

But it’s too late; my hesitation lets my colleague make her getaway. The vigilante stares at me from underneath her large sunglasses and mop of dirty-blonde hair. Her triumphant red grin is engraved in my Passenger’s aching mind.

________________________________________

“Please tell me what happened, I just need to know.” “Fine,” Sonya finally says as she settles in with Harrison. “I took Harrison outside for some fresh air and a short drive around so he would fall asleep. I know I locked the apartment door when I left that evening, that’s what startles me,” she says, “When I got back, the door was unlocked, but I thought that maybe I had accidentally left it that way. That is, until I saw the air conditioner.” She points from her chair, Harrison in her lap.

“The cover looked like someone had taken it off and put it back on. So, I went to fix it, but I knocked over a couple of things on the shelf – including the candle as I’m sure you saw,” I nod, “I didn’t get the chance to clean it up when you got back, so I couldn’t fix the vent.” I feel a small sense of relief, but something still troubles me…

“Why didn’t you tell me before? You rushed out of here so fast I thought something bad had happened.” “Actually,” she says, “My father is sick. I’ve been visiting him in the hospital any chance I can. It’s been difficult finding time for him because I need to work to pay off some of his medical bills. Neither of us has very good insurance.” “I’m so sorry,” I say, trying to sound sincere – at least I can relate to this to a certain extent, even though Harry has been out of my life lately.

“You should take some time off…personal time…to deal with your father,” I offer. “But Dexter, I need to work right now–” “I’ll compensate you, just take the time you need, Sonya. I’ll find someone else to take care of Harrison for now.” “Thank you, Dexter,” she says, placing a hand on mine momentarily, “You’re a saint.” Well…

________________________________________

_At a hardware store, not unlike the one that Dexter typically visits, the vigilante goes through the aisles, searching for the perfect tool. Picking up a knife, she studies it, imagining what it will feel like when she slides its cool blade into the writhing body of her victim…_

“Need any help?” _A sheepish, carbuncular teenager asks, trying to seem useful for his watchful manager._ “Yeah, I think I’ll take this one. What do you think?” “It’s nice. What is it for?” “Ah, it’s never too early to shop for Thanksgiving. I’ve been preparing for a while,” _she says, paying attention to hide the dark voice that wants to emerge from her._

________________________________________

I flash my laminate at the burly man and burlier woman behind the crime scene tape; they let me into the house of the latest crime scene of my elusive and mocking vigilante friend. I’m back at the blood-filled kitchen that I _know_ was intended to provoke my Passenger. Well played.

Every detail of this crime, from the blood-filled room and the chainsaw used to hack up the heavily bound bodies, is intended to call my darkness out. The problem is that we couldn’t find all of the victims in the kitchen that the DNA suggested.

That is, it was a problem until Vince Masuka (who is now on vacation) had the brilliant idea of checking the rest of the house this morning. And there it was: in the large basement freezer were the two missing bodies. They were not the neatly wrapped bloodless bodies that I so love. No. They were messy with the sticky red substance I hate so much.

When I looked up these and the other victims, however, I could not find any criminal records or possible reasons why any of these victims would have been killers. I think her Dark Passenger is becoming restless…I can work with that.

________________________________________

“…So you have their IDs – that’s great, then-” “Actually, that night our system was hacked. We’ve since improved our firewall, but I can’t help you with the night that Tommy Gray was murdered. I wish I could, he was a regular here and a good friend.” “That’s too bad…You said that you were out of town?”

“I only left town after that. I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t paid so much to go to the conference, but my flight, hotel–well, everything was already booked. And the other manager, who you’ve spoken to, was in charge after I left,” _the man says, looking at Deb helplessly yet still remaining professional._

“Thank you anyway…Actually,” _Deb says,_ “could I ask you about some of the outfits I saw on the security footage?”

________________________________________

_Deb waits impatiently for Quinn to get to the interview room. She has a television set up and the ‘Fever’ manager sitting across the table. Her fingernails rattling on the table make the two-minute wait seem ten times longer._

“What is it you found on the tape?” _Quinn asks, quickly entering the room._ “This,” _Deb says, pointing,_ “See this person in the over-the-top dress? I mean, the really, _really_ over-the-top one? Well, apparently Mr.-” “Jones,” _the manager finishes._ “Ok, well Mr. _Jones_ said that he didn’t see anyone wearing it inside the club. In fact, the person wearing it probably had about two or three different costumes underneath.”

“So this means-?” _Quinn asks, not really seeing the significance of this meeting._ “That person is probably the killer, Quinn,” _Deb answers,_ “Mr. Jones, do you mind explaining more?” “Sure, um, basically this means that the person wearing the dress that you see on screen could have hidden something much, much more dangerous­–” “Like the tools to kill Tommy Gray and have that elaborate crime scene,” _Deb finishes._

“Wait, so what about security? ‘Cause someone hiding all of that…stuff…” _Quinn prompts._ “Our security isn’t that great. We’re working on it,” _the manager ashamedly says._

________________________________________

“Thanks for taking care of Harrison all day – on short notice too,” I say to Lumen as I arrive at home, “Now I guess you don’t need to stay in that motel.” “Dexter, I need to tell you something.” Uh-oh. “I know that I’m the one who left, but I still loved you, and I feel like if I stay here,” she pauses, “It’s only going to remind me that you can’t feel the same way.”

“Lumen, I can’t help it. I’ve tried, but I can only feel the… _darkness_ …right now. And after my slip-up with Quinn, I’m not sure I can even control it anymore…” “Slip-up? What else did you tell him about us?” Wait, what? “I called you a few nights ago, remember? I killed again, and Quinn saw. You answered the phone.” I can see a small sense of panic on her face, making my Dark Passenger recoil in discomfort. It pushes me down into a chair.

“That was you, wasn’t it?” I ask. She just looks down, shaking her head in disbelief. “Lumen, please tell me who answered the phone,” I plead. “Okay, okay. Just, don’t panic, Dexter. I can’t even be sure that she heard everything – or that _she_ even answered,” she starts. I suppress my Passenger. “I’ve been talking to your sister lately – she’s part of the reason I’m back in Miami.”

Dear Dexter is disoriented. “What else does she know, Lumen?” “She knows that you helped me kill the men who hurt me, but she doesn’t know how we met, or about how you killed before you knew me–” “But she still knows I’m a killer. Shit, that’s probably why she and Quinn have been avoiding me…”

“But Dexter, she’s not going to do anything about it. It all makes sense now. Yesterday, she came to my motel room without telling me she was going to. She started talking about how damaged you probably are from what you went through. I didn’t realize it at the time, but–” “She probably thinks that this is all new for me. And she thinks that I’m having a difficult time coping with what happened to you–” No, not just to Lumen. Deb probably thinks that I’m having a delayed reaction to Rita’s death.

________________________________________

After a long evening of trying to understand why everyone around me seems to lie to me, dear old Dexter still needs to kill. I have a victim in mind, but now with Lumen as the only person who can take care of Harrison right now, I need to find a way to sneak out of my own apartment. It’s going to be a long night, especially because I need to find a new home for my blood slides and kill tools; I don’t want the lovely Detective Debra discovering the entire truth – that’s just too much.

“Hey, where are you going?” Lumen asks from the couch as I try to leave my apartment unnoticed. “I think I should get rid of these,” I say, holding up incriminating evidence of my murderous ways. “Are you sure? They’re your…trophies…” “I need to,” I say. But I have a different need tonight.

“But what about your ‘need’?” she asks, fairly. “Don’t worry about it,” I say, giving her a kiss on the cheek before I leave. I still can’t feel anything, but Lumen seems somewhat reassured.

________________________________________

_Dexter pulls into the parking lot behind the dingy bar where his next victim awaits. The full, fat moon looks down on him and the chill of the Dark Passenger’s breath heightens his senses. It is finally the time when Dexter can uninterruptedly say…_

Tonight’s the night.


	9. Ménage Étoile

Tonight’s the night. Everything is how it should be; the full, beautiful moon outshines the neon Miami streets racing past us. Tonight is definitely the night for my Dark Passenger and me. It hides us with its dark cloak and cools me with its icy wings on this balmy night. Dear Dexter is not dreaming; the night really is this perfect.

“Left here,” I tell my victim as he stares at me, panicked, in his car mirror. I tighten the noose around his neck and he obeys.

________________________________________

_Deb lies awake in bed for yet another night. She cannot stop the thoughts that bombard her brain; ‘How did he meet her?’ ‘Who else has he killed?’ ‘What did dad know?’ But her restless mind is interrupted when Quinn turns on the lamp beside him. She does not turn around to face him, but lies in the same position that she did before._

“Deb, what’s wrong?” _he asks, groggily. But she does not answer; she does not even stir._ “You can tell me,” _he continues, knowing that these are over-used phrases recycled from the collective repertoire of confused boyfriends._ “Did I do something wrong?”

No, you did something right.

________________________________________

“Here,” I say, and my victim reluctantly stops the car on the secluded dirt road. He looks into the mirror, eyes boring into mine, so I loosen the noose enough for him to get out of the car, myself in tow.

After an awkward exit from his car, I retighten the fishing line around my victim’s neck and tell him to walk forward. But what is this? He doesn’t want to obey? The struggling killer tries to run away, but cannot and only forces me to tighten the wire.

“You didn’t think you’d actually get away, did you?” I say into his ear. But while he still attempts to escape, to no avail, I take my ready needle of M99 and quiet him.

________________________________________

“…I thought you wanted to get married someday…I can wait as long as you want, Deb. We don’t even have to make a big deal out of it if you don’t want to…” _Quinn tells Debra, who finally sits up after his ten-minute rambling. He stops talking, and waits for her to speak._

“You were right,” _she says, but he still is not sure what she means by this. So he tries to decode her vague phrase:_ “Wait, so it _is_ something to do with us? I thought that–” “No, it’s not that,” _she says,_ “I was wrong when I stopped you…”

 _Quinn gives her a look that asks: ‘what?’ Much to his dismay, Deb answers, saying:_ “My brother…you were investigating Dexter.” “Yeah, but that was a while ago…what brought that up anyway?”

“You know why, Quinn. You know what I know,” _she says, but neither wants to reveal more information than they have to; neither wants to admit that Dexter is a killer; neither wants to talk about how Quinn saw Dexter’s spontaneous kill. More than this, Deb does not want to reveal how or why she knows; she especially does not want to admit that_ she _’s been investigating her own brother, or that she asked Lumen to help her._

_She’s even lied to Lumen._

________________________________________

My victim wakes up – bound to a table in my usual fashion – from what he probably hoped was a dream. The middle-aged janitor is too fond of the students who pass him in the busy middle-school hallways; they were fond of him too right before they realized Mr. Frank Warren’s intentions. The eyes of the unfortunate youngsters greet the opening eyes of the monster, but he doesn’t close them: he looks between the pictures and me, and then studies my handiwork.

“Made it myself,” I say, looking around at the neat plastic sheets and duct tape in my kill room. “You’re one sick fuck,” he says with a lazy confidence, staring at me. “Yeah, but not as much as you are. I could never hurt kids.” “Hey – I only did what I did ‘cause they were gonna tell,” he defends. The fool.

“So you killed them to save your reputation. Huh. That still doesn’t explain why you raped them.” “But I _had_ to, I–” “Well, because of your urges, I’m going to exercise mine tonight,” I say. His eyes widen and I can see his fear. My Passenger stirs anxiously and screams at me to kill him, but this is something that can’t be rushed tonight.

________________________________________

“So is that what you were talking about?” _Quinn asks, hoping that he is right. Deb studies the photos in her hands and knows that she cannot hide what she’s thinking any longer._ “Yes…and no.” “Okay, ‘cause that’s what Liddy found for me when I was trying to find out about your brother.”

 _She breaks her gaze away from the photo of Dexter and Lumen with the suspicious-looking garbage bags on his boat._ “She’s back in town,” _Deb says, quietly._ “What?” “Lumen,” _she says, pointing at the photograph,_ “she’s back in Miami…I called her.”

 _More worried for Deb’s sake than anything else, Quinn is angry, considering what_ he _knows._ “You probably shouldn’t have done that…” “Goddamn it, Quinn. I know that you saw Dexter kill someone.”

_With this, the room becomes overwhelmingly silent._

________________________________________

“Just – do it, please,” my victim urges, breaking down more and more as he forces himself to stare at the photos of the children he killed. ‘ _Put him out of his misery,_ ’ the Dark Passenger tells me, ‘but what about _my_ misery?’

________________________________________

“Why didn’t you tell me?” _Quinn asks._ “Why didn’t _you_ tell _me_?” _Deb responds._

“Okay, okay, you’re right. Deb, I was just trying to protect you…and I was trying to protect Dexter.” “Protect him from me?” “Well, shit, Deb. That’s not what I meant–” “Then what did you mean?” “Uh,” _he starts, trying to not make the situation any worse,_ “I’ve been trying to help Dexter…I kind of owe him after the blood work he did for me after Liddy was killed.”

“Wait, so what are you trying to tell me? I get that he saved your ass, but he _actually_ killed someone – doesn’t that matter to you?” “Deb, I don’t even understand everything that’s happened. And you still haven’t told me how you knew about Dexter killing that guy, or even why Lumen is back.”

________________________________________

My victims usually don’t ask to die, especially not quite so convincingly as Frank Warren. He lies there, trying to hide the fact that his Dark Passenger is gone, but I know, I just… _know_ …that it’s gone. Where does that fit into your code, Harry? Am I not supposed to be sure that my victims are going to kill again before I kill them? And what of this vigilante: does killing her fit your code too?

But looking down at the man before me, I still don’t have an answer for myself. “Why do you want to die?” I ask him. “Because,” he says, “how can I live with myself after what I’ve done?” But he seemed so confident when he woke up – why the sudden change? “So now you’re _cured_ , is that it?”

“I’m not,” he responds, “I might not feel the…the…” “Need?” “Yeah, the ‘need.’ I might not feel it anymore, but that leaves me _feeling_ things for the first time that I haven’t felt since I was…” “Human?” “I guess so. I’ve never been ‘human,’ at least not recently. Now I can actually see what I’ve done wrong. I feel things like guilt, regret, disgust…”

Is that what I’ll feel if I become human? Is that what Lumen feels?

________________________________________

“Alright, I deserved that. I just…needed to know more about what happened. That’s when I found out that Dexter and Lumen were the vigilantes.” “You mean…?” “Yeah, my whole ‘vigilantes in love’ theory was right – they killed Jordan Chase and the other guys.” “Did you know that when you let them go?” _Quinn asks, caught a little off-guard._ “No. I didn’t even want to know who the vigilantes were – that’s why I didn’t want them to move…in case I found out who they were. There must be some part of me that doesn’t want to know the truth – whatever it is – about Dexter.”

“Did Lumen tell you how she escaped Boyd’s house, or how she met Dexter?” “No, that’s the part that she’s refusing to tell me. Fuck, and for them to _kill_ together – that takes a lot.” “Maybe we should talk to her?” _Deb considers this, and then says:_ “We should talk to Dexter too,” _before finally falling into a much-needed slumber._

________________________________________

I can’t kill this man. ‘ _But you have to, Dexter. Kill him – you can’t set him free._ ’ ‘But it’s not like that’s a good reason to kill him.’ ‘ _It is._ ’

Rule number one: don’t get caught. But this kill is beyond what I’m used to; it’s a mercy kill. Besides, I have to get rid of everything right now: my kill tools, my trophies… My trophies. This man cannot join my collection, even if I did kill him; putting someone out of his or her misery is not my usual business.

“Please…” the man groans from the table, “Just kill me.” Tears stream down his red, crinkled face but he refuses to look away from me. “How did you become ‘human’ again?” He sighs and closes his eyes, then responds: “There was this…boy…” “Which one?” I ask, pointing at the photographs. “He’s not up there,” he says.

“What happened, Frank?” “He’s a smart kid, but still naïve,” so he’s still alive, “He always cleans up after himself and his friends. Such a good kid…” I can see something in his eyes that I don’t have in my own: feeling. “Well, I was going to do to him what I did to the other kids, but then I saw the bruises…his fucking father beat him – just like mine did to me. But do you know what scared me the most? I didn’t even remember that until I saw how badly that boy had been hurt. Then all of these memories just came back…things I didn’t even know about.”

“So just like that, you suddenly became ‘human’?” “No,” he replies between strangled sobs, “No, I didn’t. But it stopped me from hurting that boy, or any other kids for that matter.” “And you just… _evolved_ into something human?”

“You can be human too,” he boldly says, refusing to answer my question directly. “But wouldn’t that be worse? Look at you, you’re miserable.” “I never said it was better,” he tells me, “but it’s going to happen.” It has to happen. I can’t avoid it. ‘ _No it doesn’t._ ’

Is that just a lie that the Passenger tells me? I’ve become more human before, so maybe I can become fully human. Even though Lumen has killed only a small fraction of the people that I have, _I_ made her human again. If someone, or something, like me can make another person whole again, then couldn’t darkly dreaming Dexter be free of the Dark Passenger? Can I cure this emptiness?

‘ _But what about the others…_ ’ it reminds me. My brother, Lila, Miguel, Trinity; I couldn’t help any of them become human – but I wasn’t trying to heal them. I haven’t even tried to become human myself, so isn’t it possible?

I need to kill this man, but not for the Dark Passenger.

I move towards the man and slice his cheek. I then collect his blood and put it on a slide. “You’ll do it?” He asks, strangely hopeful. “Yes I will,” I say, raising my knife above him. He closes his eyes and looks at peace.

I bring my knife down, stabbing him in the heart. His blood flows under the shrink-wrap and duct tape, and I bend down to his ear before he loses consciousness:

“Thank you.”

________________________________________

I toss Frank Warren’s body into the ocean after adding rocks to the bags to sink them. The mist off of the ocean sprays my face: so refreshing, so clean. The moon looks happy; it’s still my companion, only this time it seems friendly and un-menacing.

_Dexter tosses one final bag into the ocean; his kill tools and blood slides sink into the depths of the busy waters, temporarily relieving Dexter of his burdens. One blood slide remains with him: Frank Warren’s. Dexter’s first anti-victim is not a trophy in the usual sense for dear Dexter; he’s freedom._

It’s warm out here.


	10. Go West

Sometimes things like this just…happen. I know, it’s cliché; but it’s true. Sure, it’s been a part of dear Dexter for a while now – no matter how much I’ve fought it before – but how it happened this time I can barely remember. Something’s changed in me; I can feel it. Tonight was the night, and it was a good night. The moon is shining in through the blinds, but this time _I_ get to appreciate it.

Tonight, I lived.

________________________________________

This morning, I tried to figure out a blood spatter pattern from a recent (but not high-priority) murder; I propped up dye-filled dummies, smashed their heads in with various weapons, and watched the clean, white room become a crimson masterpiece. ‘But what happened to the other vigilante?’ you may ask, but I honestly don’t have an answer. It wasn’t her crime scene (well, according to the M.O.), but the Dark Passenger did not, and does not, irk me.

It was actually, dare I say, fun to focus on a crime scene other than one meant to torment me. Oddly enough, I felt a little queasy the day before when we visited it, but for now I’ll blame that on the lack of food that morning.

After determining the weapon of choice and the relative height and weight of the killer, I took my notes and started writing my report; it was a fairly mundane morning, but definitely not a bad one.

________________________________________

“Doughnut, Dexter-ous? Hehehe…” “Vince, you’re back!” I said, eagerly taking my second breakfast. “So, where did you go?” I asked, but I could tell that this didn’t sit well with Masuka, who took his lollipop out of his mouth in a way that asked, ‘Are you kidding me?’

“I was in Vegas,” he told me, as if it was painfully obvious. “Okay, okay,” I said, “How was I supposed to know?” “Dude, I tweeted about it.” That must be it. “Oh, I didn’t know that you…tweeted, Vince…” This is the point where he pulled out his laptop and showed me his multiple twitter announcements, including news about his several stops at tourist traps, and something that made me choke on my breakfast a little…

“You got married?” I asked him, genuinely surprised. “Yeah, hehehe…” he answered, opening a link, “Elvis themed, baby! Now _that’s_ a wedding,” he continued, giggling and pointing at the picture. “Congratulations, Vince,” I said, and he nodded with his head towards the box of doughnuts, letting me have another.

“If you insist…” I said to the generous-feeling Vince Massuka, of course willing to oblige. “Just sharing the love,” he said, opening the box for me. I definitely preferred this to the singing.

________________________________________

“Lieutenant, you’ll be needed at twelve o’clock,” _said Captain Matthews. Laguerta just nodded as the Captain left her office doorway, rushing to get everything ready for the press conference. Laguerta sighed and started preparing her press statement._

________________________________________

“Tomorrow, after work.” “We can’t keep putting this off, Deb,” _Quinn responded, keeping to the hushed tones of the conversation._ “No, really, tomorrow. I just need some time. We can’t really talk about it now anyway – not here,” _Deb insisted._ “Okay, fine.” “See, that wasn’t so fucking hard?” _she says, laughing teasingly to break the tension,_ “I’ll be back in a minute, but if you see Masuka, tell him I need to ask him something,” _she continued, running off before Quinn could form a reply._

_Deb opened the bathroom door to see Laguerta getting ‘camera ready,’ applying a fresh coat of lipstick and face powder. She could tell that the Lieutenant was trying to avoid the press conference, but she wasn’t sure why._

“Lieutenant,” _said Deb,_ “Uh…so I heard that you’re giving a statement to the press…about the vigilante…” “I suppose so,” _said Laguerta._ “You avoiding it?” “I can’t – I’m going to have to face them eventually. It’s more what the vigilante is going to do _after_ the press get my statement that I don’t know yet.”

“Is this about–?” “The DNA sweeps, yes. The new sketches and some of the information we’ve pulled together are all going to be out in the open,” _Laguerta replied, applying more mascara._ “…And you think that if, or I guess, when the vigilante hears about it, she’ll have a heads-up on us…that it’ll give her an advantage?” _Deb finished, realizing that the investigation has to go on – especially with the help of some press attention – even though the vigilante might try to make a getaway._

 _Laguerta nodded, then finished adjusting her hair, saying:_ “It’s the best we can do right now.” “Good luck out there,” _said Deb._ “Thanks,” _Laguerta replied before venturing out to confront the inevitable reporters._

“She’s right,” _Deb said to herself,_ “I can’t keep putting this off.”

________________________________________

“Why do you need me for this, Vince?” “Because, you’re the blood guy.” Despite this somewhat annoying response, I followed Vince the few steps to his lab where my sister sat impatiently, already knowing that she had concocted another theory.

Before I could even ask what was going on, Deb sprang out of her chair and spoke so fast I seriously don’t even remember the first minute and a half of what she said. Batista passed during the exchange and held back a laugh when he saw my and Masuka’s faces. About all that I caught from Deb was: ‘DNA sweep…vigilante…blood work…crime scene…’ of course interspersed with the occasional variation of ‘motherfucker.’ So, of course, I asked the inevitable…

“What are you talking about?” Deb stared at me and punched me in the arm. Then she realized that not even Masuka could follow her rapid train of thought. “Okay, okay,” she said, “So you know about Laguerta’s press statement?” Masuka and I nodded. “Well,” she continued, “I can’t be the only one who thinks the vigilante is gonna avoid the roadblocks…that’s why I was just _thinking_ …is there anything else either or you found – or could find – I guess?”

I wasn’t sure what she was getting at, but then Masuka’s open computer reminded me of this morning and his twitter adventure across the country. “Deb, are you thinking of checking other DNA databases?” I asked, assuming that she thought that the vigilante was on the move; a pretty decent theory might I add – although it isn’t entirely unexpected.

Deb seemed to be okay with my suggestion, but she acted… _cold_ towards me until she went back to her desk. This was followed by an awkward silence until Masuka and I decided to call up some other forensics departments in neighboring states; it was and still is a waiting game.

I’m still not sure if we’ll make much, if any, progress but Deb seemed anxious…more than she had in recent history (…which says a lot), so I decided to go along with what she wanted.

________________________________________

Later, I saw Deb when Masuka wasn’t around, so I asked her more about the multi-state DNA checks that she brought up; I was sure that that could not be what she was trying to ask us.

“Find anything yet?” she asked me almost immediately. But I moved the conversation to what I wanted to talk about: “No. But, it’s about what you said – that the vigilante is going to avoid the roadblocks.” “Yeah, Laguerta kind of mentioned something like that…how the vigilante will probably do what she can to avoid anything she knows we’ll throw at her,” she said.

This made me think of what _I_ would do, which was a little harder than usual today, but I managed. “Opposite,” I said – now I know why Deb shot me that ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ look. “I mean…if you knew what the police were looking for, and you were trying to avoid being targeted in the DNA sweep–” “Then I’d make sure that I didn’t fit the description; I’d be the exact opposite of what the police are looking for,” she finished, excitedly, “Shit, why didn’t I see that?”

“I don’t know, Deb. But hey, it’ll give you something to look for.” “Guess so,” she said, with a slight smile. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking, but I could not help but feel somewhat hurt by her recent attitude towards me. What’s wrong with me?

________________________________________

_Sliding off her cool silk dress and stepping into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, the vigilante watched the news. Her newly colored hair left a brownish tint on her collar and her facial prosthetics left reddish marks around her nose and chin. Finally seeing Lieutenant Laguerta’s press statement, she felt soothing reassurance from her Dark Passenger._

“So that’s the picture they’re using?” _A smile crept onto her face, distorting any outward signs of normalcy._

________________________________________

I finally left work, avoiding confronting the many questions I had about Debra; I can’t help but feel as though she has something to say to me. There it is again: I _felt_ something; but it’s nothing profound yet. I also managed to evade more ‘love’ from Vince Masuka, who sang some song that confused me (even coming from him); he kept on proclaiming: “I am my hair!” at the top of his lungs, to the bewilderment of his onlookers.

As I walked from my car to my apartment, I felt taken aback by the sudden rush of memories that plagued my mind. When I reached the place where Quinn saw me – whatever I am – as a killer, I crumpled to the ground. I almost couldn’t breathe; I could hardly even open my eyes. Then, I forced myself up, through the intense dizziness, and tried to think more normal thoughts while making my way up the stairs.

I greeted Harrison and Lumen, and happily did not hear of any killers or psychos (other than myself) in the neighborhood. All was well in the land of darling Dexter; that is, until I fainted.

________________________________________

“So what are you going to do? Just start tailing anyone who doesn’t look like the vigilante?” “I know,” _Deb said to Quinn,_ “It’s a long shot, but we don’t have anything else right now…Besides, she’s gotta look at least a bit like how she did on the tapes?”

_Frustrated, Quinn nearly punched the ‘down’ button for the elevator. When the lighted arrow finally went off and the door opened, he let Deb go in first and quickly hit the button to close the doors. They suddenly could not hear Masuka’s rendition of Justin Bieber’s “Somebody to Love,” but now all they could hear was silence._

“This isn’t about the vigilante,” _Quinn said,_ “You’re just avoiding confronting Dexter.” “Fuck you! What do you know?” “Deb,” _he continued calmly, despite the tension in her voice,_ “why else would you be making him do all of that lab stuff for you? And you’re following a lead – if it’s even that – that you _know_ is a long shot.”

“Well,” _Deb said,_ “I guess maybe we have different ideas of what a ‘lead’ is…” “ _Deb._ ” “Fuck, who am I kidding? I guess I just…” _she said, in a more understanding and relaxed tone,_ “I’m scared.”

“I know,” _he said, squeezing her arm,_ “tonight doesn’t have to be the night, but we have to talk to him sometime.” “Tomorrow. I mean,” _Deb said,_ “I’d talk to him tonight, but I’ve been going all…psycho on everyone today,” _she continued, laughing._

________________________________________

When I regained consciousness, I found myself staring up at my ceiling fan, feeling its cool breeze; still I didn’t feel the coolness of the Dark Passenger.

“What happened?” I asked, not sure if anyone was in the room. Then Lumen told me that I fainted soon after coming home. I turned my head to see her perched on the end of the bed after she finished speaking. “What’s been going on, Dexter?” she asked me, so I explained the incident I had on the way up to my apartment. She seemed genuinely concerned and asked me about my Passenger.

“I…I can’t feel it…But I don’t feel ‘human’ either…” “Do you think it’s gone? Because last time you thought it was, it wasn’t…” “But this was, _different_ ,” I started, “Lately, I’ve _felt_ things…but not anything major, just things that I don’t usually feel.” So, I explained some of the strange things that had happened to me so far until Lumen looked down, then looked at me, not sure if she should smile, or cry, or–

But then my train of thought was cut off: she kissed me. This wasn’t like anything I had ever experienced, even with her. I had so many mixed feelings, but then one thing led to another, and here I am: Lumen lies across from me, and we stare at each other in silence. Only, this time, she breaks the silence: “It’s happening…you’re…” but she doesn’t even know how to phrase it, she just knows what the feeling is like, because after so many years being dead:

I’m human again.


	11. The Fire Next Time

Sun. Beautiful sun. Beautiful, _honest_ sun.

If I wasn’t afraid of burning my retinas out I might even stare at my solar friend. But alas, today is not the day for such indecent exposure. Without the cover of nightfall, Miami feels like an entirely different city; people flaunt everything and there’s no hiding from the beautiful beach-goers…or from the not-so-beautiful beach-goers. And every shade of sun-damaged snowbird you could imagine flocks to the crime scene tape, excited by the sickeningly surreal scene ahead (and it’s only ten o’clock in the morning). Lieutenant Laguerta keeps the over-zealous tourists back from the thrillingly gory new experience, while the throng of cartoonish-looking sandal-clad folks still manages to scarf down turkey legs, practically hoping for a gift shop at the end of this repulsive attraction; ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, to your left is a wonderful view of the ocean, and if you look straight ahead, you can see an actual, real-live dead body.’ Ooh-aah! ‘Wow, so much blood! Better get your cameras out, kids!’

Oh, how I love Miami.

“Dexter, you’re here,” Deb says. “In the flesh,” I respond, going under the crime scene tape. “It’s pretty brutal,” she warns me, “This is _way_ fucking worse than what Laguerta expected.” Okay, now she’s got me at full attention. I know it must be my vigilante foe at play, so I ask: “What do you mean?” But she guides me over to the body – or bodie _s_ , I should say – shaking her head and not really saying anything; she’s paler than a ghost. I see Masuka and he’s acting not dissimilarly from Deb. He’s not singing, humming, or joking around, nor does he even acknowledge my presence when I say ‘hi’ to him.

Then I see it: arms, legs, torsos, and heads; hands contorted, holding onto each other; faces forced into smiles, staring at me; two bodies in all in the bloody mess, laid out in the shape of the symbol I’ve grown to despise.

All of my colleagues have backed away from the scene, despite trying to study it. Masuka crouches close to the ground a few yards behind me and tries to will himself to look at the crime scene – as opposed to the sand. Time feels frozen and that’s how everyone’s acting; my colleagues look like statues. I must have looked the same a moment ago, but now I feel a tug from somewhere inside me: inside my stomach–

Nope, the Dark Passenger has not returned. But my gastronomic display has upset some of the tourists. So that’s what it takes…huh. In the midst of all of this, my head begins to pound: hard. Just great. I manage to find a water bottle and nearly drain it in one attempt but it doesn’t help; the pounding in my skull persists, even worsens. This is far more poignant than any of her prior works, but am I truly ready to deal with the repercussions I’m sure the vigilante has in mind? Shit, even looking around myself now I realize that the crime scene seems to be two – even three – times further away than it was only a minute ago and everyone is turned towards me. Why me?

“You okay, Dexter?” Quinn asks me, sternly concerned – and not looking too well himself. I hadn’t even noticed that my hands were clutching to my aching head, or even that I had coiled up into somewhat of a fetal position, but everyone else has. “Yeah, I’m…I’m…” but start to fall before he catches me by the arm, “I’m f-fine, Quinn. Why do you ask?” Maybe that didn’t help my point. But before I know it, he and Batista are practically carrying me to a bench. I try to push them away but I stumble and fail miserably at any of my modest endeavors. When I am finally seated – albeit even unsteady in this position – I notice that Masuka is managing to handle the crime scene much better than myself, and everyone is progressively moving closer towards that _awful_ display. Well, except for Batista and me.

“You don’t have to go back there if you don’t want to,” he tells me, “I haven’t seen you like this since that bloodbath a few years ago…” Right, my brother used to be the only one who could do… _this_ …to me. What the fuck is ‘this,’ anyway? I try to respond to Batista but it takes a few minutes for the vomiting to cease and for the headache to ease up enough for me to do so. “I…I can try to go back,” I say, unfortunately not all that convincingly. “Dexter,” he says, “Masuka will take care of it – he’ll take pictures and you’ll do the rest back at your lab. I’ll take you to the station.” Somehow, I don’t even try to argue against him; I really don’t want to go near that crime scene again. Whatever she’s trying to do, the vigilante got to me, damn it! She’s left me to deal with feelings that I don’t understand; how _do_ I deal with them? What do I call them?

“Thanks, Angel,” I say, and I manage to stand on my own while doing so. I know that he, one of my only friends, would probably never talk to me if he knew what I’ve done, or what I am. My reaction to the vigilante’s latest work seems like nothing compared to the rift I would cause between me and everyone else; I’d disgust them – like I disgust myself.

“Easy, there,” he says; I didn’t realize I was stumbling again. Angel helps me into the passenger seat of his car where I rest my aching stomach, sore head, and my heavy eyes…

________________________________________

“Dexter.” Pause. “Dexter.” Another pause. “Dexter!” One final time and the faint, surreal voice I thought I heard a minute ago turns into the very real, very loud (only because I was just asleep) voice of Angel Batista, who is practically shaking me now. “Oh, we’re here. Sorry,” I say, noticing that we are back at the station, “Thank you, for…for everything, Angel.” “I just drove you back, it’s no problem–” he says sincerely.

“No. I mean it,” I say, “You’ve been…you _are_ …a good friend, Angel. I appreciate that…a lot.” And after a short moment of silence, he gets out of the car. I try, but I’m still a little shaky and dizzy so I sit there awkwardly, fumbling with the seat belt.

He opens the passenger door and hands me a paper bag and a cup of coffee. I hope I didn’t say something wrong, but then when he speaks I feel differently: “Thanks, but Dexter, _you_ ’ve been – and you _are_ – a good friend.” “But–” “No. You have. Don’t forget it.” Have I? He doesn’t let me disagree with him, but instead helps me out of his car. “You should probably eat something,” he says, referring to the pastry in the bag. “Okay,” I respond, and I find a shaded table to have my snack.

________________________________________

I sit at my desk: waiting. And waiting… _and_ waiting… ‘Masuka should be back any minute,’ I tell myself repeatedly. I look at the clock: it’s only been fifteen minutes since I came upstairs (even if it does feel longer) – and thanks to the bear claw and caffeine from Batista, I actually made it up here on my own. But still, the wait is quite unbearable. Then, I see the elevator doors open and the lab geek that dear Dexter has been waiting for (rather impatiently) walks out, carrying his briefcase. If only I could know what was in it. It’s so close…

“Dexter!” he says, in a happier tone than I would have expected, considering the crime scene we all saw; something about his tone seems fake, although I don’t feel the need to analyze it any further. He looks genuinely concerned for my wellbeing; another person I suppose I can call ‘friend.’ Okay, okay, I can take a hint: ‘stop getting so sentimental, Dexter.’

“So what did you find at the crime scene, Vince?” I ask anxiously. But before he answers, he grabs his chair and brings it into my office. He closes the doors, shuts the blinds, and double – no, more like triple – checks that no one could possibly overhear what he is about to say. “Vince?” I ask, but he shushes me. “Okay, it’s about the bodies,” he says. “Wait, so you’ve ID-ed the vics?” “We’ll get to that later. Shit, if what I’m about to tell you is right, then…” But he trails off and slumps into his chair.

“Then _what_ , Vince?” I ask him, genuinely curious. “Well, there were demarcations on the body, which reminded me of another case…a few years ago. But then I thought that there was no way I could be right. Fuck, I hope I’m not right…” What is he so worried about? And he would rather be _wrong_ about this case – wow. For someone who usually is so confident with the evidence he finds, Masuka seems afraid – no, not exactly afraid, per se – that wouldn’t be fair; he just seems so _unsure_ of himself. This doesn’t seem like him. But maybe he’s less unsure than he is in denial? …I’m still new at this if you couldn’t already tell.

“…But that wasn’t the weird part,” he finally continues. “What do you mean?” “There were these… _rocks_ …and they were a few yards away from the bodies, behind some trees,” he starts, “They were covered in _algae_ , Dex.” “Okay, but they were at the beach, so there’s nothing strange about that…is there?” But he shakes his head, saying: “I’m getting a marine biologist I know to look at them, to see what kind of algae it is before I do anything. I _need_ to know… _for sure_ …”

‘What are you suggesting, Vince?” I ask. I know there must be some reason for this hushed conversation. “There was something about them – I don’t know why…” he says, staring at the closed blinds, then at me, “take a look.” So, I comply, taking the folder he passes me; he’s almost reluctant to give it to me, yet he seems desperate to unload his intellectual burdens. “Last page,” he says quietly; my fingers can’t keep up with my anticipation. I risk multiple paper cuts while rifling through the folder; how hard can it be to get to the last page? Two more; no, three more; no, one more to go; or maybe I was right the first time…

“You’re the only one who knows,” he tells me when I reach the page, “Please don’t tell anyone.” “I won’t,” I promise, completely dumbfounded by what I see. She’s good, the vigilante; she toys with me in so many ways, but _this_ is just crazy. The note, which has been photocopied from a very crumpled original copy, reads:

YOU ACCUSED THE WRONG MAN

THE BAY HARBOUR BUTCHER STILL WALKS FREE

“You don’t think it’s true, do you?” “I don’t know,” he says, “It could just be something to throw us off, you know, like distract us away from her.” “She wants to turn us against ourselves, or at least, against _one_ of us,” I realize. Then I notice that I said this out loud by Masuka’s anxiously agreeing, nodding head.

“Yeah, and the bodies that you asked about,” he says, “They weren’t her usual victims, even though I’m sure she killed them. They weren’t – at least not from what I could find – vigilantes, but they seemed familiar. They both had cases go though our department…” he continues, briefly outlining the crimes from which they walked free. “…So, I guess that just like with the Mitch Adams-Tommy Gray case, it’s some kind of a _warning_ …” he finishes. Yeah, it’s a warning to me: I’m her next victim. It’s flashier than my kills are, but this message is too strong for her to hide it and it’s meant for not just me, but for the entire police department. And if I wind up dead, laid out for all of Miami Metro Homicide to find, then they will know: it was me.

________________________________________

 _Lumen is finally up and dressed, having taken the last few hours to try to sleep after a restless night. Knowing what Dexter is going to deal with emotionally in the next while, she spent the night fighting back the ideas and countless possibilities that plagued her mind. She does not want to even imagine what could possibly happen if he were truly human – but who would? Sure, it is something that intrigues her, but she does not want Dexter to have to go through all of that turmoil. And the fact that she needs him to be human is not helping; is it her fault? But she knows that this was inevitable: his becoming more human. What makes him more human only makes him realize how much of a monster he is; he_ actually _could realize what he’s done. The emotions he will have to deal with are alone are confusing enough for Dexter; he does not even know what they are. He could not; it is not possible._

_She sorts through the pile of clothes that they tossed on the floor the previous night. Dexter left in a hurry: crime scene. He slept in – a reminder that maybe he will not be hit with a wall of realization and his utter humanity quite yet. This slight relief is only temporary; a tangible force interjects…_

_When she picks up Dexter’s pants, something nearly falls out of one of the pockets. Lumen catches the small glass slide that holds Frank Warren’s blood, but nearly throws it away from her in haste before she realizes what it is. She is almost angry at first:_ “He said he was done killing,” _but she heads into the living room, blood slide in hand, needing to check behind the cover of the air conditioner._

Nothing. _Absolutely nothing lies where Dexter’s wooden box of trophies usually does. So, she puts the slide down and virtually tears apart the apartment;_ no trophies; no kill tools; he doesn’t have anything else like this but the _one_ blood slide; why? _But, instead of feeling betrayed, Lumen realizes why she still has the blood of the men who hurt her. She easily recalls that:_ killing them made me better.

Is it possible that Dexter killed someone to make _himself_ better? _But she decides that she should not make that judgment for him. Putting the blood slide inside the air conditioning unit, she replaces the cover and continues taking care of the apartment; with the new mess she created it has become necessary._

I can’t – I _won’t_ – do this to him. He has to decide.

________________________________________

“So you mentioned some _demarcations_ on the bodies, Vince?” I ask after the initial shock of the conversation has turned into a slower form of turmoil. “Yeah, the thing is that they basically _match_ the ones left by the Butcher…fucking plastic wrap and duct tape.” Fantastic. I see his dilemma; the vigilante’s message could not be much stronger than this. Oh, great, he decides to show me the pictures of the bodies. “I don’t think I can…” don’t make me look! “Dexter, you’ve gotta see this. It’ll be worth it…and if you hurl I’ll buy you lunch.” Interesting logic, but why shouldn’t I give it a go? So, I agree to his terms and conditions and he proceeds:

“Here,” he says, passing me a picture, “Look at this.” Their faces: she sliced the cheeks of her victims. The direct blow hits me in the head; I’m down but not out. Then I notice the tiny marking on one of the victim’s necks: they were tranquillized. “Are you okay?” “Yeah,” I respond, “what else did you find?”

“Well…I hope you can handle it, but…” he says, showing me a picture of the entire crime scene: the grotesque, gory artwork. The fact that he missed one of my trademarks gives me some relief (for now), and I feel some tension leave my body.  Unfortunately, the vigilante has still managed to force her message so far into my skull that I have to withhold the tormented screams that want to escape from me. “You see the way the torsos are positioned?” he asks. Staring at the picture isn’t helping me, but I nod. He continues: “We’ve been looking at it wrong, it’s not just an ‘infinity’ symbol.” I look at him, not sure what he’s trying to say.

“It’s a Mobius strip,” he says. “Okay, then how is it that different? An infinity symbol is what’s used to represent a Mobius strip–” “Well, they aren’t exactly _different_ , but she’s trying to _rename_ herself, I guess.” I get her signal loud and clear: ‘I own you,’ and she won’t stop until she knows that every victim – vigilante or not – doesn’t matter and that their accomplishments are hers; she wants to be in control and all-powerful.

“So this means–?” I ask; I want to know what Masuka thinks, not what I think. “She’s trying to mock us – she thinks that some of us aren’t smart enough for her. ‘Cause we all know–” “I know, I know – _you_ are smart enough…” “That’s not what I was gonna say, but I’ll take it,” oh really? “Okay, maybe it is. Hehehe” he says, finally looking and sounding more like the usual, giggly Masuka.

“By using something other than blood, like bodies, she can show us what she wants to. I guess, it’s more ‘3-D,’ which helped her differentiate what we saw from what she wanted us to see,” he says. As much as this conversation is making progress, it’s hit its end – at least in the direction Masuka took it. I know what he’s avoiding, but I just _need_ to ask: “What are you going to do if you think that the Bay Harbor Butcher _wasn’t_ Doakes and he’s still–” “If he’s still free?” “Yeah, are you going to tell Batista, or Laguerta, or anyone, I guess, that someone in our department could be the real ‘Butcher’?” then I add, “Even if she kills him?” He looks at me after my question and confidently says:

“No.”

________________________________________

For the remainder of the day, I had little social encounters with my colleagues, which gave me the opportunity to get over my migraine and even fall back asleep in the semi-dark confines of my office. Quinn and Deb drove me home and even kept the stereo volume down to an almost acceptable level for poor disheveled Dexter. But, it’s when we arrived at my apartment building that things started to change: the two of them told me they needed to talk to me – _inside_ my apartment. Is it just my opinion, or are they encroaching on my territory just a _tad_ too much? I didn’t even have time to tell Lumen, so of course when the four of us wound up in my living room, with Harrison being the only one seemingly un-phased, it was a bit of a surprise (not the fun kind) for my three peers.

Despite the amount of aspirin in my system right now, I take some beers from the fridge. No one seems to disagree with my gesture, and even I hastily open a bottle. Things have settled a bit – even if the room still feels uncomfortable – but I decide to break the proverbial ice: “So, what is it you needed to talk to me about?” Deb and Quinn look at each other; Lumen looks at me.

“Well…” Quinn starts, but Deb shoots him a look and he stops talking. “Dexter, I know that there’s a lot of stuff that’s happened in the last few years, and I know it’s been hard for you, but I’ve started…wondering…if somehow you’re… _connected_ to it all in some way…” “Deb, I–” I say, even though I’m not sure where I’m going. But my sister does not let me continue.

“Goddammit, Dex…this isn’t easy for me to say – at least it’s not easy to say to _you_ …But,” she says, her voice tense, “I’ve tried every other possible avenue in the past, and the only one that makes any fucking sense at all is…” She takes another swig of beer and takes a moment to figure out how to phrase her thoughts without causing chaos. I don’t even dare speak. “I don’t know how I didn’t see it before, but you…you’re a killer. I know what you and Lumen did…”

“But with all he went though…with his wife…” Lumen says, but doesn’t say more than she has to. “I get it,” Deb says, “Helping Lumen helped you get over Rita’s death. But Dex, it’s more than that, isn’t it?”

How much do I tell her? Would I be revealing too much if I told her the truth…the _complete_ whole-hearted truth? That seems a little ridiculous, but with everything that’s happened – or _could_ happen – maybe the truth is necessary.

“What do you want me to tell you, Deb?” I ask. I realize that I’ve latched onto Lumen’s hand during the conversation so I loosen my grip to avoid making her _more_ uncomfortable. “How did you escape Boyd’s house?” Deb asks Lumen directly. But she refuses to tell her, saying: “It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I’m free and that those men can’t hurt anyone anymore.” I would love to end the confrontation, but it’s not feasible. Deb is not satisfied with this answer, but the way she looks at us makes her understand that what we did – even what I did – was somehow not so wrong. She eases up, but still, I know what I have to do…

“You don’t have to protect me anymore, Lumen,” I say and she responds saying: “You can choose how this goes.” So, I clench my teeth, prepare for the worst, and tell Deb: “I killed Boyd Fowler.” I momentarily feel free – but I know that this will only lead to more questions. I almost forgot that Quinn is here, but his startled expression reminds me that all I can do is wait for the repercussions of my confession. After this, I might not be able to retain my relationship with Deb; even Quinn might stop trying to repay the debt he thinks he owes me. Was this the right thing to do? Lumen would have pleaded my innocence for as long as possible. Masuka would have even defended me at work. But I need to finish what I’ve started, and Deb deserves to know the truth – even if it hurts her.

“Fuck, what am I supposed to do with that?” she prompts, sounding very much like she is about to cry, “So that’s it? You killed him?” “Deb,” Quinn says, but his comments don’t seem appreciated by Debra. “Why, Dexter? Was this because of Rita?” I know what she’s thinking: she desperately wants Rita’s death to be the reason for everything, but I can’t let her believe that.

“Kind of…” I say. “Kind of? Really? You mind telling me what the fuck you mean by that, Dexter?” With all eyes on me, I whisper to Lumen: “I have to,” and she seems to understand the burden I bear…

“I’m a serial killer.”


	12. Dexter

Have I been born free? Or, is this my one-way-ticket to prison? I feel boundless; I can walk in full sunlight; I can bask in the truth. But will this truth burn me? Can I deal with what I’ve said or done? Looking around me, I remember: this is _real_. What I do from this point on will affect everyone tenfold the amount it has in the past. But I don’t regret any part of my statement: I am a serial killer.

Deb and Quinn stare at me, jaws agape, forearms resting on their knees in anticipation. Lumen looks like she’s waiting for something – most likely some sort of verbal reaction from the other two. She isn’t surprised, but not just because she knows about my past. I think I need her as badly, if not more, than she needs me because she can read my expressions; she understands my emotions, and even my actions, before I can. She even knows how much I needed to tell Quinn and my sister my deepest secret.

After many hushed ‘oh my God’s under her breath, Deb says: “Jesus, Dexter. Who the fuck _are_ you?”

But I don’t have an answer: I don’t know who or what I am. Is there even anything left of me? ‘I’m a serial killer,’ but is that how I choose to define myself? Is that the only way I _can_ define the thing that used to be dearly disturbed Dexter? I _can’t_ bring myself to kill someone right now; even the thought sickens me. Still, I refuse to deny my truth.

The vigilante who’s tormented me wants me dead, but I don’t think I can kill even _her_ if and when it comes down to it. No: I _know_ that I can’t kill her. There has been so much blood on my hands – worthy and not – but I cannot bear any more. I feel unclean…and I hold onto the last shreds of respect I have for myself; I won’t survive if I try otherwise.

Once again I say it, but slower this time: “I am a serial killer.” I look directly into her eyes and I can tell that Deb knows I’m not lying. She looks at me and then at Quinn. She then looks at Lumen before looking back at me. No one speaks, so Deb does:

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” she says. I think her question is somewhat rhetorical, but I say: “Yes,” anyway.

I see her mind working: Deb is starting to piece things together. I don’t know what exactly she’s thinking, but she speaks again: “Could you give me and Dexter a few minutes…alone?” What does Deb want to say to me? I don’t look forward to this, until I remind myself: it’s Deb. I did this – telling the truth – for her sake, so she deserves my cooperation.

Quinn looks a little concerned by Deb’s last statement, but my sister seems to let him know without speaking that she needs to do this. Lumen doesn’t understand why Deb needs to talk to me, even if I do, but by my facial expression she too realizes that this is important for Deb, and for me. “We’ll be outside,” Quinn says to Deb, and he and Lumen step out of my apartment.

We sit in silence for a few moments, but Deb breaks it: “I need to know, Dex…What did Dad know?” The question is: what does she _think_ Harry knew? ‘Where are you?’ I want to ask him, ‘What do I tell Deb?’ He still doesn’t appear; he doesn’t help me. So, I try to diffuse the question: “He didn’t–”

“Don’t lie to me, Dex,” she cries, “Don’t fucking lie to me!”

I feel like I’ve run out of options; but then I think back to Deb searching through Harry’s old C.I. files… “Deb,” I say, “He helped me control it.” “Control what?” she asks, fairly.

“My ‘need,’” I answer. My honesty only leaves Deb wondering more. “What–?” “My ‘need’ to… _kill_ …” I say.

Without me saying more, Deb seems to go from being astonished and hurt, to confused and betrayed…and many emotions later: understanding. “How did I not see this before?” she says, “The crime scene where he found you and…” she still can’t say his name, so I don’t force her to.

“It… _changed_ me, Deb.” “No shit,” she says, and then makes herself ask what she needs to know, “Dexter, did Harry know that you actually _killed_ people?”

I sigh; I should have known that Deb would want to know this. “You know how he and I would go on those hunting trips?” I ask, and she nods, “He was trying to help me channel my…‘ _need’_ to animals…at first…”

“At first? He didn’t tell you to kill people, did he?”

“Deb, he didn’t want me to…but eventually…it had to happen,” I say, “He taught me how the police think…so I wouldn’t get caught…” “So he had you _work for_ the fucking police; _with_ the police…”

Do I tell her more? Something inside me urges me to: “There’s something else you should know, Deb. I kill _bad_ people…” “Like­–” “Killers. I…I kill the people the cops don’t catch­–” “God,” she says interrupting me, “He told you that some people deserve to die. And that’s what you told _me_ …”

She recognizes my biggest flaw; the obstacle that has held me back from being human for so long: my _need_ , in all of its shame. Even though I know she’s at odds with herself, mentally sparring between the cop and the sister she is, she asks: “So why did you tell me now?”

Well, other than the obvious fact that she was too close to catching me, another reason makes itself known in my thoughts: “I’ve… _changed_ …I don’t feel it…the _‘need’_ anymore.”

To my surprise: this answer suffices for Deb. I don’t think she wants to know more; she’s comfortable not knowing every one of my demons. She looks at me, fully sympathetic and asks: “Okay, what are you going to do now?” What: no arrest? No screaming match? Why does she give me – a killer ­– any options? Being a detective, I expected the angry fists of the law to smash me into millions of bloody pieces…

“I don’t know,” I say, “What am I supposed to do? Turn myself in? Go back to my usual routine?”

“I don’t know, but you _can’t_ go back to work, Dex,” says Deb, “I should be arresting you right now – but I’m not going to do that. So you can’t just fucking show up at the station, surrounded by _cops_ …no fucking way…” I know it’s difficult for her to look at me. I wouldn’t even blame her if she never trusted me again. I have not been the best brother; Deb deserves better.

“You should arrest me, Deb. Don’t make an exception for me­–” “Don’t argue,” she says, “I won’t make you turn yourself in…I _can’t_ ; but I can’t arrest you either. Just swear you’ll call in sick or something tomorrow ‘cause if you’re ‘need’ is gone, and you’re this…”

“I know I’m unstable,” I say, “But you shouldn’t be at work either–” “Dex, I have to. With the…v-vigilante,” she says, finding the word harder than usual, “With this case going nowhere – fucking _nowhere_ – I can’t not be there. And you – you need to stay here…”

“I will, Deb. I’m…I’m _so_ sorry…” I mutter, but it doesn’t feel like enough, “I’ve done so many things that I regret. I…I feel horrible.”

“I believe you,” replies Deb. I believe her too. “I…I gotta go,” she says, and standing up, she reinforces what she just said by telling me: “You need time, Dex.” As she gets to the door, she turns to me and says one more statement: “We’re family – don’t forget that.” With this, she leaves. I feel like Deb is completely unaware of what we just discussed when she says the word: ‘family’, because it implies so much that seems impossible for me now. No one should accept me; no one should love me. But then the mental gears of Dexter Morgan suddenly synchronize…

Lumen re-enters the apartment and asks: “So, how did it go with your sister?” “She made me figure something out,” I respond. “Oh?” “She…she…” but I keep my realization to myself.

“What is it, Dexter?” But I stare out into the space in front of me… Could what I think be possible? This seems to complicated for the once heartless me to comprehend… But now I understand what Deb and I have:

Unconditional love.

________________________________________

This morning I called the station – per Deb’s request – and explained to Lieutenant Laguerta that I’m still feeling under the weather after yesterday’s incident (the one at the crime scene, of course). Concerned for my wellbeing (and probably aware that I would not be very productive today), she immediately understood and told me to ‘take all the time’ I need. Frankly, I don’t think anyone who saw me yesterday would suggest I go to work today; at least it’s Friday, so I’m only really missing half a day if I follow my usual routine. So, naturally I am trying to enjoy possibly my last moments of freedom; my truth is exposed but I have not become subject to the wrath of the police force – _yet_. What I do and what I decide are critical.

I think I had some strange dreams after last night’s confessions that can only be compared to something from the mind of Lady Macbeth; but today I do not wash any blood from my hands. I barely even remember most of the jumbled nonsense that swam around inside my mind when I slept. My subconscious tries to remind me of my guilt, but I keep on telling myself: ‘I killed bad people.’ It helps, but only a little.

I step out of the shower, dry myself off, and get dressed. I’m all squeaky-clean…on the outside, that is. As I am about to leave the bathroom, I notice that my face is still wet. Huh, I thought I dried that already. Ah, there’s that towel. But within seconds of re-drying my face, I feel water trickling down my cheek again.

I try four, five, six more times but I can’t yet keep my face dry. I hear a knock on the door. “Dexter, are you okay?” Lumen asks. But when I try to talk, my voice wobbles and I make hardly audible squeaks. She opens the door, looks at my red, puffy eyes and tear-stained face, and does a double take. “What happened?” she asks, but I have no answer for her. What the fuck is happening to me?

Now I can taste the salty water that pours out of my eyes, but I stop trying to wipe it away. “Lumen…I…um…” I say, gasping for air between words.

“It’s okay,” she says, “You’re going to be okay.” At first, this makes me cry more and I feel aggravated, but then I realize: she’s been through this. Lumen is the only one who can understand… _this_. I finally manage to dry my face and I take a seat on the couch. “I’ll go get breakfast,” says Lumen. I toss her my car keys and she leaves.

I scoot over to Harrison’s crib and stroke his fluffy head. Whatever I decide to do, I want to protect my son – something that Harry was too late to provide for my corrupt mind. “I never want to hurt you,” I say, picking him up, “I love you too much.”

________________________________________

_Deb remains silent on the events of the previous night. All that Quinn knows is Dexter has not been arrested – nor will he be, and he may or may not turn himself in. Stepping out of the elevator and into the Miami Metro Homicide Department, Deb and Quinn are each ambushed by Laguerta and Batista – respectively, and are separated._

_While Quinn is dragged off to talk to some witnesses from the vigilante’s crime scene at the beach, Deb is given a pile of old crime scene files to go through – thanks to the DNA sweeps. It’s almost a relief for her to be preoccupied, but she still needs to talk to Quinn; at least, she can’t avoid him forever._

________________________________________

After the bizarre start to my morning, I eventually sat up straighter, took a few deep breaths, and moved on with my thoughts when Lumen came back from her brief outing, bearing coffee and bagels. Something formed in my brain when she was out and continued to brew in my head while we ate and drank. Now, a while later, I decide that I am ready to reveal my idea:

“You should leave,” I say, although I could have said it slightly differently and perhaps with some sort of suitable preamble. She stares at me inquisitively, so I elaborate. “If, I mean, _when_ everyone knows the truth, the police are going to ask you a lot of questions…and, the vigilante…she’s still, you know, _free_ …” She looks un-phased by this; I know it’s obvious to her what I’m usually thinking, but the fact that I’m actually telling Lumen to leave should have more impact, right?

“I’ve thought about this too, Dexter,” she says, “You should come with me.” I hadn’t considered this option, but maybe I _should_ leave. Would that be easier? Possibly, but I still have my doubts.

“I can’t, Lumen–”

“Yes you can. We could start a new life…away from here. Both of us need that.” She’s right, but of course, I’m still not sure if this would be a better life for _her_ , having to hide because she’s with me: a serial killer.

I tentatively agree to her statement, even though I still haven’t made up my mind. But, I add one more condition: “If anything happens to me, you have to leave.” Although I know she’d rather not think of this possibility, she agrees that it’s necessary.

So now I have two options: run away with Lumen, or turn myself in to the police. Neither choice is easy but I have to make my decision soon. Tonight is the night.

________________________________________

_The Miami Metro Homicide Department is filled with the buzzing sounds of cops, lab geeks, suspects, and witnesses. Progress has been made with the DNA roadblocks for many cases, but the vigilante that everyone is so desperate to catch remains to be seen. It is one o’clock and amid the musical talents of Vince Masuka, the back-and-forth arguments between Batista, Laguerta and Captain Matthews, and the many, many phone calls being answered and made, Deb and Quinn finally have the opportunity to talk alone._

_They look at each other and nod, knowing that it is finally the moment to resolve last night’s shocking revelations, but mostly they need to talk about the one, most important piece of information: that Dexter is a serial killer. They both get up, virtually unnoticed by their colleagues, and head for the stairs; the roof is the only private place within walking distance. They silently make their ascent up the stairs when Deb hears a very loud ‘thud.’_

“Fuck!” _says Quinn, aggravated._ “You miss a step?” _she asks._ “No, I think I hit all of them.”

 _She helps him up, stifling laughter, but she takes this opportunity to transition into the conversation they meant to start_. “What are we going to do?” _she says._ “It’s your call, Deb,” _Quinn replies._

“He needs time…I mean,” _she starts,_ “I can’t fucking arrest my own brother, but…maybe that would be…easier…”

“I know. It’s the best for everyone if the police handle it…” _he says. They continue up the stairs, Quinn this time being more careful, and step out onto the roof. Shielding their eyes from the sun, each pulls out their sunglasses and finds relief from the bright Miami afternoon._

“He should turn himself in…It doesn’t make sense for us to go back now after I let him go,” _says Deb._ “I think we should give him time,” _Quinn agrees,_ “You know, like to get rid of his apartment…”

“And Harrison,” _Deb wonders aloud,_ “Damn it, what is he supposed to do about his son?” _But Quinn does not answer her._

________________________________________

My phone rings: it’s Quinn. “Hello?” I ask. He tells me he’s outside and that he needs to talk to me. Great. “Okay,” I reply, and I tell Lumen that I’ll be back in a minute. I go outside where I see Quinn leaning against a palm tree. I make my way downstairs where I realize that he’s staring at his watch; he must be cutting his lunch break.

“Hey,” I greet him, and he responds similarly. “Look, Dexter, I don’t want to… _force_ anything, but–” “This is about turning myself in, isn’t it?” “Yeah…I just wanna help you if you do,” he says.

“You don’t have to keep helping me, Quinn. You don’t owe me anything, and you don’t have to keep repaying me for clearing you with the blood work after Liddy’s death,” I say, “Shit, _I_ was the one who killed him so you _really_ don’t need to do anything for me.” I nearly explode with frustration – not just because of Quinn.

“Well, sorry,” he says sarcastically, “I thought you’d appreciate it if I helped you out…and don’t think I’m just helping you, Deb–” “It’s better for her this way, Quinn. I won’t be able to hurt anyone else,” I say, cutting him off.

“You already fuckin’ hurt her,” he says. “You think I don’t know that? But if anyone helps me get through all this, it should be Deb,” I say.

He’s annoyed with me: I rejected his offer. He storms away, cursing under his breath. If there were a door in front of my face, he would have slammed it. But alas, he settles for his car door instead – despite its price. I re-enter my apartment and can tell that Lumen wants to know the contents of my conversation with Quinn; “He wants me to turn myself in,” I tell her.

“What do you want to do?” she asks me. And even though my conversation with Quinn made me realize I can’t, I say:

“I want to leave.”

________________________________________

_Deb is at home with Quinn; he avoids any conversation about her brother, but Deb wants to talk to Dexter again. Right when she is about to call him, her cell phone rings. She steps out of their apartment to answer the call._

“Dexter,” _she says,_ “What happened earlier…with Quinn?” _He doesn’t answer this question, rather he says:_ “I want to turn myself in.”

“Okay, but–” “Deb, I need you.” “Fuck,” _she says,_ “What are you trying to say?” _Dexter’s breaths sound strained on the other end of the line, but he manages to tell her about the recent conversation._

“…Deb,” _he continues,_ “You’re the only one who can…get me through this…I don’t want to hurt you any more…” _Deb starts tearing up, and Dexter speaks again after a pause:_ “If anything happens to me–”

“Harrison will be okay, Dex,” _she promises, reading his thoughts. Dexter finally figures out that Deb is on the same wavelength with him. His decision becomes infinitely easier._ How could I doubt you, Deb? _For this, he is truly sorry._

________________________________________

Lumen needed to pick up a bigger suitcase, leaving me at home; just enough time for me to make up my mind, call my sister, and now: wait. However decided I seem to be right now, my choice still promises difficulty. Being left with my thoughts is not all that pleasant either. I won’t be putting others through the torture ahead as much as I will be putting myself through it…

“What have I done?” I ask myself. No, I don’t regret telling Deb and Quinn that I’m a serial killer. The fact that I am a serial killer however, is in and of itself very unnerving.

“You’re doing the right thing, Dexter,” a voice says from behind me. I turn around, “Harry?” I say. But, the initial shock that he is here quickly passes and all I feel is betrayed. “Why did you leave me?”

“I didn’t leave you,” he tells me. “But you did,” I counter, “And now Deb knows what I’ve done…and now I really, _really_ know what I’ve done–” “Dexter!” he nearly yells, cutting me off. I stare at him, trying to figure out what is going on, but his blue eyes bore into all that I am or am not, freezing my thoughts.

“Dexter,” he reiterates, “I was with you the entire time.”

It’s not possible; no way has Harry been with me. I have all these emotions coursing through me, but I cannot even manage them. Now I even doubt if I am or ever even was human. Still, that does not change the fact that I needed Harry and despite my pleading, he didn’t show up until now.

“You didn’t answer me when I asked for your help,” I say. “I know, Dexter,” says Harry, “It’s because I was working through you.” Wait, what? Is this even possible?

“How?” I ask, desperately needing to know the answer. “Why do you think you killed Frank Warren? Why do you think you threw away your blood slides and your kill tools? And now you’ve told Debra that you’re a serial killer,” he says.

“But, _I_ made those decisions,” I argue.

“Yes, you did. But Dexter, I’m part of you: I’m only your memory of me. I’m your conscience.” “So,” I say, “What you’re saying is that I worked through myself? Is that it?” That doesn’t make any sense to me…but am I the one coming up with all of this? Either way, this conversation is aggravating me.

“Let me explain,” he says, so I stop arguing and listen, “You let Dark Passenger take over. It was a part of you because like other people, you have a kind of ‘need,’ even if yours was much stronger. But, the part of you that remembers the ‘code,’ and me, needed to fight against that.”

I pace the room, clutching my elbows and clenching my teeth. “Why did I have to fight it?” I ask “Because, Dexter, you wanted to,” he says.

I furrow my brow and ask him: “Which part of me? Was it you?” But he shakes his head and says: “No, it was _you_.” This sends me reeling; is there really anything more to me than the Dark Passenger or Harry’s code? Am I not just a vessel? I don’t know what to think anymore.

Sensing that this seems impossible to me, he says: “You care about the people around you, son. Why else would you have wanted to become human? It definitely was not part of my ‘code’ for you to become so vulnerable.”

“You’re right,” I say, freezing in place, “I had to be human…for Harrison, and Lumen…” and for Deb.

“I wouldn’t have wanted you to be like this, but I had to help you–” “You had to help me protect them…and you made me get rid of the evidence…” But I trail off, realizing that I still have one blood slide left. I frantically search the apartment, trying to remember where I left it…

“You didn’t want anyone to find it, remember?” Right, it should be in my pocket. But I reach into my pants pockets and find nothing. I try every article of clothing I own for a pocket and I even check my briefcase, but I find nothing. Of course, maybe I’ve just reverted to my old habits, so I check behind the air conditioning vent and find the single blood slide.

“I can’t keep it,” I say, “What if someone finds it?” But maybe… “Did you make me keep this?” I ask Harry. “No, that was you again.” But he must have let me keep it, so I put the slide back.

“You know what to do, Dexter,” he says. “What do you mean?”

“Think of all _your_ options: you could either run away – with or without Lumen, confess to the police, or do nothing and wait to be killed or arrested…” But I realize that he’s leaving out another option, “Or _I_ could end all of this…” I say, “I could kill myself.”

“Don’t,” he says, “You still have a chance to be healed.”

________________________________________

_Masuka knows that the vigilante’s message was true: the Bay Harbor Butcher was not James Doakes. But the strange part of all of this is that he decided to cancel his meeting with his marine biologist friend yesterday; he does not want or need an answer because his gut tells him that he already knows the truth. So, putting the vigilante’s original note – and the photocopied version of said note – through the paper shredder beside his desk, he leaves this algae-covered stone unturned._

________________________________________

Harry’s message leaves me with my eyes closed, scrunching my face in anger. The conversation has led me to understand what he wants me to do. I open my eyes, look at Harry, and say: “But I care about her. I…I love her.”

“You know what you have to do, Son,” he tells me, once again. “I know.”

I re-enter my living room carrying my suitcase. Lumen has returned, packed, and sits waiting on the couch. “Are you sure you want to do this?” Lumen asks me, making sure that I’m ready; I know that she is.

I nod and say: “Yes,” but she doesn’t realize that I’m not answering the question for her. I can see Harry standing near her; he’s dressed the same way he was the day I was ‘born.’ I put down my empty suitcase, sit down, and take Lumen in my arms. “This needs to happen…even if it isn’t easy…” I say with my face buried in her shoulder.

“You can… _we_ can be…at peace. Finally,” says Lumen.

I start feeling tightness in my throat and lose my composure entirely. My body shakes with sobs and I can tell that Lumen is starting to cry too, though much quieter than I. “At least… _you_ can be free,” I manage to choke out.

“Dexter, what are you saying?” she says, slightly panicked. But I pull her in tighter, making sure that Lumen cannot break from my grip.

“I’m so sorry, but…it has to be this way. We both have to leave…but you can’t come with me right now…Please do what you said. _Please_ ,” I say, now drenched in my own tears. She tries to break away from me, but does not succeed and I pull a syringe from my pocket, inject the tranquilizer into her neck, and say:

“Please forgive me.”

Lumen falls limp into my arms and I carefully lay her down on the couch. I know that no matter how much she does not want to leave me, she knows how important it is that she does. “Goodbye,” I say to her unconscious form.

“You have to go now, Dexter,” Harry tells me. I lean down, kiss Lumen on the forehead, and head for the door, trembling and sobbing more than I previously had. I already miss her.

Harry stands before me but when I reach out to him, he fades away and I realize that I am grasping at the air around me. I hate that he’s gone again, but I have to trust him: Harry is in control; he made me do it – keep one last syringe. I didn’t even realize that he _knew_. Harry knew what I’d have to do. Or is he gone? Am _I_ in control?

I have broken free from the armor that entrapped me for most of my life; for the first time, I can be honest with almost anyone. I make my way into the pleasant night, gazing at the full, bright moon; can I trust my old friend? The breeze from the ocean cuts through the Florida humidity and hits my still wet face. I wipe away my tears with my arm and approach the parking lot.

Tonight is the night.

Confessing to my awful truth can’t hurt Deb much more than I already have. And Harrison, who I miss more than anyone right now, is safe from me, and from my demons. My colleagues will be shocked by the truth about dear Dexter Morgan, ‘the blood guy,’ being a serial killer. I don’t even want to think about what Astor and Cody will go through, but it was inevitable that they would figure out what I am.

I have to call Deb and tell her that _it’s_ _time_ and that I’m ready to confess; this is the last major hurdle for the night. I start doubting my judgment, and myself, but I’ve already left Lumen with my horrible secrets. And with this first, painful step I’ve taken, I can’t go back. I take out my phone and dial Deb’s–

________________________________________

How long have I been out?

I lie on a cold, hard floor in a dark room. I’m not chained, tied, or even duct taped, but I still feel confined. “Hello?” I call out, but I get no response other than my own echo. Am I dead? Am I in prison? I don’t know.

I hear feet – human feet – walking across the floor. Whoever it is, he is about three feet away from me; his body glows, lighting the narrow room. As he and the room get brighter, I hear a growing shriek. It hurts my ears, but my led-like arms refuse to cooperate and I can’t cover them.

The amount of light in the room becomes almost unbearable. The dark walls become painfully white, and the overall brightness makes the glowing man from before virtually disappear. “Hello?” I call out again. I try a few more times but am not successful at hearing a response; my echoes even ignore me.

Now I notice two large buttons: one on either side of me. To my left there is a blue button, and to my right a green one. My hands, which are closest to these buttons, suddenly feel much lighter than the rest of my body – just enough to allow me to press one of the strange contraptions. But which one should I press – if any? I have no information until I hear a voice telling me: “Green.”

For some reason, this seems to feel like the right decision, so I move my right hand toward the button–

Someone lunges at me and I let out a very loud, anguished scream. The figure, dressed in red, raises a chainsaw above its head and both my hands become heavy again, not letting me choose my fate. It takes off its mask, but before I can look into the eyes of my killer, I hear a familiar voice whisper:

“Close your eyes, Dexter…”

I fade into redness, then complete darkness before I suddenly awaken; but where am I?

It’s dark: only one light illuminates the small room. I’m unable to move and I feel sweat running off my forehead. I’m lying on an uncomfortable table – at least, I think that’s what it is. Something tears at the skin on my forehead when I try to turn and I let out a very audible “Ow!” My voice causes a slight, metallic hum in the air.

My body is restrained by plastic wrap and duct tape. The physical pain and discomfort lets me know: this is real.

Looking directly ahead of myself, I can barely make out what I see on the ceiling – which is only about a yard away. Because of where the light is, I don’t know if there’s anything beyond the shiny tape above me. The light is moved, but I can’t turn to face the shadowy figure that moves it.

Now I see it, what she wants me to see…I shut my eyes, avoiding the awful display, but she speaks: “Look at it,” she says, “Look at it, or I’ll make you.” One at a time, I open my eyes and see them…I try to re-close my eyes but the sound of her sharpening her knife makes me rethink my decision…

Knowing that I have no other choice, I stare at them: my victims.

Everyone I’ve killed looks back at me; the empty eyes of the monsters make me remember every one of my kills. For several minutes, I look at the horrible people who deserved to die. I take ownership of them: I’m a serial killer. I may have changed, but these people died as monsters.

The single light goes out and I feel the table move: it’s on wheels. It only moves a couple of feet, but when the light goes back on I realize that this is enough.

“What did you do to them?” I ask, staring at the images of my friends, of my family. Rita, Lumen, and Deb…even the kids, and everyone at work. “I didn’t do anything,” says the vigilante, “You did.”

The light goes out again, but this time for much longer. I feel the table move not just across, but also _down_. I must be between where I was when I woke up and where I was only moments ago. But I feel much lower to the ground; I’m slightly disoriented. When the light goes on again, I realize how much brighter the room seems. There must be at least two lights now.

I start to get my bearings and realize my location: a shipping container; but seeing the image that has formed on the ceiling, I lose my train of thought:

“Me?” I ask, staring at the picture. “Yes,” she tells me, leaving me with my thoughts. Everyone I’ve killed or even hurt forms a picture of me; I cannot deny that I have hurt myself. This can’t be, can it? I mean, the people I’ve killed have led me to become this: human. But, does even someone so soulless as her understand that _I_ am my own person? That _I_ am the root of all I’ve done? That I’m not just the creation of my Dark Passenger, or Harry?

“Why do you do this?” I ask, “Why vigilantes?” She lets out a maniacal laugh and says: “It’s not _only_ vigilantes, but you’re such an _interesting_ group…”

Her response does not help me understand at all and she can tell. “We all have different demons, Dexter,” she says, “And we all have different ‘codes.’” She has a ‘ _code’_? I think she’s more into a challenge than a code; vigilantes like myself fight for something…

“You don’t know what I mean,” she says, but I don’t respond, “We all have different standards of who _deserves_ to die, so I’m eliminating the competition.” “That’s not right,” I say, but I realize the error in my statement. “It’s not right…to _you_ ,” she coldly says.

She leaves me in silence after she finishes speaking. ‘If only I had been quicker,’ I think, ‘Maybe she wouldn’t have caught me…’ But I finally have an: ‘Aha!’ moment, even though Harry isn’t here. He _wanted_ me to get caught; what other choice did he have? _I_ am not the one who gets to decide.

No, that can’t be right. Harry wouldn’t do this to me; but maybe he didn’t do this _to_ me as much as he did it _for_ Deb. “Finally,” he tells me, “You don’t have to run anymore. You don’t have to do _this_.” This. Deb won’t have to go through the process of watching me go through interviews, trials, prison, or my execution…

Quick and painless.

“You knew,” I say to Harry. He nods his head and fades away for a moment. I see the vigilante now: she stands over me and takes blood from my arm. I hardly flinch. She hops onto the table, stepping on me, and paints the infinity symbol over the collage she created. She looks different than she did the one time I saw her, but I’m not surprised.

“You’re wondering why I do this,” she says. I don’t care, but she continues anyway, “You see, when I kill a vigilante who had a strong purpose – like Tommy gray, like _you_ – I take something from them. With him, I took this symbol. But with you…” she trails off.

Getting down from the table, she says: “Well, it’s just my way of continuing the cycle…” She grabs a scalpel and a small piece of glass and moves towards me. “I think I’m going to take this from you – I like it,” the vigilante says, slicing my cheek. She puts a drop of my blood on the glass and covers it with another.

She seems lifeless – empty. I was like that too, once. She invaded my apartment, tormented my Passenger, and stared at my trophies. But what she has right now is something that I had a long time ago: no one to love. I can tell. “Where are you going after this?” I ask her.

She’s not surprised that I asked this, even considering the current situation, so she says: “Far.” This confirms what I thought: she doesn’t lack a need to kill – that isn’t what will stop her; the threat of the police force is the only thing that can stop her now from being what she is.

I let my eyes roam the room once again and I see him: Harry stands beside me. “ _You_ can do this, Dexter.” I open my mouth to question him, but he disappears. Does he want me to convince the vigilante to let me go? Is that even possible? No, he’s leaving the decision up to me: Dexter Morgan. I am a serial killer – a fact I can’t deny, but there’s still something about darkly dreaming Dexter that is independent. So without anyone telling me to:

I close my eyes.

_FIN_


End file.
